


I Walk on Tiptoe

by OftenWrongSoong



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Circus, Angst, Blow Jobs, Death, Depression, Drama, Fluff, Hand Jobs, Homophobia, Humor, M/M, Mentions of Suicide, Mixed Messages, Romance, SO MUCH TEA, Superstition, Swearing, Tragedy, circus AU, heavy tea use, seriously, we are British and have tea instead of blood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-20
Updated: 2020-03-02
Packaged: 2020-12-27 03:43:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 28,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21112112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OftenWrongSoong/pseuds/OftenWrongSoong
Summary: In the Eden Device Circus, the Angels' trapeze act is the highlight of the show, an act guaranteed to dazzle and amaze. Aziraphale is lucky enough to count himself as one of them.AJ has a job as a roustabout, and a past that has made him a pariah.The two find themselves embroiled in a web of superstition, ill omens, and tradition. In the ring, who is to say what's true? Where men fly, and horses dance, is it possible that a person can be a harbinger of doom?Inspired by the beautiful drawings of the-pastel-peach.tumblr.com





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> ἀκροβατέω - akrobatéō, “I walk on tiptoe”
> 
> For those who wish to have an appropriate soundtrack; https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0oJdedqYZyBAMEFu1UMV7C

_It's a funny old world._ Aziraphale muses to himself, his eager eyes darting to take in the flurry of activity around him.

If you had told him ten years ago that he would be working in a circus he would have laughed in your face. Well, more a disbelieving chuckle perhaps, he's far too polite to laugh in _anyone's_ face.

The truth is, the idea had always appealed to him. After all, who as a child hadn't dreamed of running away to join the circus? Still, his family being the sensible well-to-do people they were, the idea had been simply preposterous. But then he started failing maths and science, and started to excel at gymnastics. Good parents never fail to see talent, or indeed opportunity, and so a place in a training program was found, and soon he was winning medals.

The problem with gymnastics is, it's a short career. He was one of the lucky ones, scouted and approached to retrain. He had been twenty five at the time, and the gold medals were getting harder to grab away from the hungry young teens pushing their way up the ranks.

He had accepted. Much to the disgust of his parents, who had all but disowned him. It was with a shiver of horrified delight that he had finally squared up to his father and told him _to his face_ to... what was the phrase? Oh yes. _Go to hell._ Lord, but that had felt good.

And now here he was, one of the famous Angels, in the ever-expanding Eden Device Circus. No gold medals to be had here. Just a regular wage, a trailer of his own full of his books, and the adoration of the crowds.

He grins to himself.

He had started in smaller circuses, working his way up, until Gabriel, trapeze trainer and choreographer, had found him and picked him out to be an Angel. That had been six months ago, and now that they were mid-way through his first season he knew he would never want to be anywhere else.

The training had been hard, much harder than he'd anticipated, but having the basics gave him a head start, and once they'd placed him as a catcher it had been easy to slip into the role. Now it's second nature, the popular act tight and well-rehearsed, his trust in the other Angels implicit.

He claps his hands to shake off the excess chalk and rolls his shoulders before grabbing the rope ladder and springing to his place.

It's hot up here, close enough to reach out and touch the heavy canvas that covers their little world; the ring, the band, and the audience, who's necks are craning to catch sight of the performers. He beams down and waves, one hand gripping the rigging. The spotlights glimmer on the silver-gold sequins of his embellished jumpsuit as he turns to check the rest of the troupe are in position.

Samuel is on the opposite catch bar, serious-faced as always. Next to him Michelle gives him her trademark tight smile and a nod as Yael steps up onto the board next to Aziraphale. The gold flakes on her face catch the light as she turns her piercing eyes to him.

"Focus, Aziraphale." She mutters darkly.

"Yes, of course." He sobers immediately. It's always hard to wipe the smile from his face at times like this, with the adrenaline coursing through his veins and the anticipation of the crowd heavy in the air. The Angels are a serious, stoic group, and that's why they're the best. Awe-inspiring spectacle, death-defying tricks, effortless grace, those are their trademarks. It doesn't leave much room for fun.

Michelle has the swing bar in one hand, the other on the rigging, and she gives him the nod. He drops down onto his bar and, somewhere below, a mechanic hauls on the rope and sets him swinging. He's sitting facing away from the others now, and he lets himself sway back with the movement to hang by his knees, arching his back to build momentum.

He shouts the signal as soon as his rhythm settles, and it seems barely a moment later that hands are reaching for his, Michelle grasping his wrists, and the crowd is crying out with delight. He swings her up onto the bar and Yael pulls her up to the board to take a bow.

He swings twice more, meets Yael's eyes for confirmation, and then catches her hands as she drops from the platform to his waiting grip. Two more swings and he's launching her into the air and into the grip of Samuel.

He can no more help the grin from spreading across his face than he can stop the sweat that runs into his hair. His father can go to hell.

He loves this part too, the warm-down. Stretching, sequins swapped for jogging bottoms and a tank top, the slow cooling of a body hard-worked, and the simple satisfaction of a job well done. It's full dark by the time the show wraps up, and now he's enjoying the peace and quiet. He swings his legs out of the door-flap to watch the horses go back to their stables, flanks dark with sweat. He's always been a little afraid of the huge beasts, with their wild eyes and sharp hooves. He's even more intimidated by their handlers.

The horsepeople are a group all their own, with mysterious terminology that no-one else understands, and a bond with their animals verging on symbiosis. Aziraphale shivers as they pass, almost ghostly in the fairy-lights. Scarlett, with her chestnut stallion. They have a dressage act, where the vicious beast dances to the tune of her heels and hands. She braids red ribbons into her hair, he had heard the others whisper, because she's just as fiery as her horse, and just as likely to lash out.

Chalky and Raven follow, with their matched pair of dapple greys. Their pas de deux is solemn and elegant, and the horses broad-backed and placid under their hands.

Sir has already retired for the evening, after settling his horses. Aziraphale has no idea what the man's name is, everyone just calls him Sir. He's dark eyed and bald, and performs a liberty horse act with four Lipizzaners. He's never heard the man speak, but somehow the horses understand and obey the slightest twitch of his long fingers.

He lets out a breath he didn't realize he had been holding as he watches the horsepeople disappear to the back yard, where the stables would house their charges. He allows himself a moment to be thankful that he has no need to socialize with them.

"Flag's up!" Comes the shout, and he pushes himself up, brushing the grass from his trousers before scurrying for the mess tent.

Around him the roustabouts are scampering, cleaning and tidying before grabbing their food and turning in for the night. Aziraphale spots Gabriel as he ducks under the flaps of the mess tent, and flashes him a brief wave.

"Aziraphale!" Gabriel gives him a wide smile. "Well done, good show."

"Well, you know, it's all down to your choreography." Aziraphale blusters, although he can't help the blush from coloring his cheeks.

"Ah, but what good is choreography without top class performers, hmm? Ah, Sam, early in line as always!"

Samuel turns his head to give Aziraphale his parody of a smile. "You were too quick on the return of the flexus."

"I... I don't recall that I was..." Aziraphale stammers. Gabriel slaps him on the back.

"I'm sure there's a good reason for it! No harm, no foul, right? Still, you mind and stay sharp, okay? Wouldn't want any mistakes." Gabriel gives him a tight smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes.

"No-no, quite, of course!" Aziraphale drifts over to join the back of the line while he tries to remember. Perhaps Samuel was right, but he couldn't recall releasing Yael too early for her to catch the bar. She _had_ caught it, that much was true. He resolves to ask her later to rehearse, if they had time, before the show tomorrow.

The rest of the Angels are already seated by the time he grabs his food, and he pads across the mess tent to join them. A flash of color catches his eye, and he glimpses a red-haired man sitting alone. Unusual enough, in a place so crowded he can barely move without bumping into someone. He recalled seeing the man around, one of the roustabouts helping with set-up and throw-down, cleaning and rigging. He frowns. No one should be eating alone in a place like this.

"Aziraphale!" Gabriel calls, waving him over, just as the man glances up.

Pale hazel eyes, almost gold in the dim light, set in a lean face. The man frowns under the scrutiny and ducks his head, and Aziraphale gives himself a mental shake before joining the Angels at the table.

"Everything alright?" Gabriel inclines his head towards him inquiringly. Aziraphale gives him a shaky smile.

"Yes! Yes, fine. Um, can I ask, I've seen that man before, but he's never with the others. Why is he on his own?"

As soon as the question leaves his lips he knows he's miss-stepped. The others at the table glance darkly at each other, and Gabriel all but bristles.

"That's AJ, and he's alone because that's the way we like it. Now put it out of your mind, I've got notes."

Aziraphale tries to listen, he really does, and he makes it about five minutes before he risks glancing over to the corner where he had first noticed that flash of auburn hair.

The man is already gone.


	2. Chapter 2

He tries to pretend, over the next couple of days, that he's not looking out for a flash of red hair. He would deny flat-out, if anyone asked, that he was waiting on tenterhooks for a glimpse of the wiry figure with the yellow-brown eyes. He would categorically refute any suggestion that a hint of long limbs clad in black made his heart stutter. Because it's preposterous, that's why. Ridiculous, to be infatuated over a roustabout, a man he's never even spoken to. Absurd. As if he doesn't have enough on his plate, what with Gabriel's constant updates, and the pressure the other Angels put on him to strive for perfection. As if he has any time at all to be... fraternizing.

Instead he goes out of his way to make friends with everyone else. This is, in no way at all, a roundabout way to try and find out about 'AJ'. Not at all, I can't believe you would even suggest such a thing.

The band are called 'The Them'. He had thought it was an amusing allusion to 'The Who', but when he mentioned it he was met with blank stares. Even so, the young people are friendly enough (_So young!_ He thinks. _Or perhaps I'm getting old_). Adam on lead guitar, Pepper on drums, Brian on bass, Wesley on synth. They make a tight chummy little group, and are a dab hand at improvising when the need arises.

Bella is the juggler, and she's surly, at best. He does his best, he really does, but the only time she seems even remotely approachable is during her act. With the balls flying around her, her face lights up. Any other time she's like a bear with a sore head, and he learns to keep his distance.

Tracy the cook he loves, mostly because she seems so friendly, but partly because she always slips him an extra portion when Gabriel isn't looking. She seems to know a lot, but most of it is gossip about who's sleeping with who, which makes Aziraphale's ears go pink.

He makes friends with the clowns, despite the lip-curled derision it earned him from the other Angels. Hanzi and Liam have been clowning with the Eden Device Circus since it started, and they are a fount of knowledge. From them he discovers that the circus was an old family one, and only got its double barreled name when Anathema Device and her husband took it on from its previous owner. She never says much about who owned it before, but she keeps the name for traditions' sake. She's in charge of the hiring of acts, and sings with the band in between announcing the acts ("No, I'm not a ringmaster, that's a desperately outmoded concept. I just make sure everything runs smoothly. And everyone comes in on time, and knows their cues. So, not a ringmaster. Nothing like."). Her husband Newton is happy in the offices, working out the tour schedule, keeping track of payroll and ticket sales. He will admit, if pressed, that he always wanted to be a magician, but he's too nervous. At least, that's what Hanzi says.

It takes Aziraphale a week to ask about the redhead.

"So, um, I've been wondering..."

They're in the padroom, the tent where they store their costumes and prepare for their performances. The opening is maybe an hour away, and the other Angels haven't arrived yet. Their act is the main attraction, and takes up most of the second half of the show. Aziraphale is warming up, in an idle sort of way, with Hanzi and Liam, who are mostly fussing over their make-up and costumes.

"Hmm?" Hanzi is busy adhering a shock of white hair to the top of his head.

"There's... someone I've seen... Uh, a man, w-with red hair, uh... He's always by himself."

Hanzi catches his eye in the mirror.

"You talkin' about AJ?" His face is blank under the grease paint, but there's a dangerous light in his eye, and a curl of the lip around the cigarette dangling from his mouth. Aziraphale doesn't much like him smoking in here, he's fairly sure it's illegal, but Hanzi knows how to say 'fuck off' in twelve different languages so he doesn't press the issue.

"Um, yes, at least, I think that's his name." Aziraphale stammers.

"Want my advice? Stay away from him." Hanzi growls, and Liam grunts in agreement from where he's adjusting his dusty jacket.

"But... why? He... he seems... I mean, he must be terribly lonely."

Hanzi closes his eyes and sighs through his nose before turning to meet Aziraphale's eyes.

"Don't mind him, he's just a jugal, hangin' around coz he's got nowhere else to go. Best if you steer clear, he's bad news."

"But why? What has he done that's so bad that I can't even talk to him?"

"You want gossip? Go to the donna what run the mess."

"But-but surely you know who he is..."

"Look." Hanzi swivels back to the mirror. "You want my opinion? Dunno why the gaffer keeps 'im. He's blokime, you rocker the jib? Best angels like you steer clear of devils like him." He spits the dog-end of his cigarette onto the canvas floor and stamps it out derisively.

"Yes. Yes, of course." Aziraphale answers mournfully. Why is it that, no matter who he asks, all he ends up with is _more questions?_

After the show he heads to the mess tent with the others, always on the lookout for auburn hair and autumn eyes. He hasn't seen him since that first glance. Maybe he left. He's certainly been ostracized by everyone else, what reason does he have to stay?

_Because he has nowhere else to go_ his traitorous thoughts answer as he holds out his tray.

"You look glum, dearie. What's the problem?"

He shakes himself from his reveries to focus on Tracy's gently smiling face. Her artificially orange hair is like a beacon shining around a face gently aging, although she's doing her best to deny it with paints and powders. She used to run a sideshow selling fortunes, but packed it in, she said, when 'people became too cynical'. Now she cooks good hearty food, and keeps half an eye on her husband, whom she still refers to as 'Mister Shadwell'. He manages the roustabouts, keeping the motley crew in line.

"Oh! Oh nothing. Just a-a little distracted, that's all." He gives her a weak smile. She purses her thin lips in a moue of annoyance.

"Now don't go trying to fool me, young man. If you've got a problem, let me help you out, you know I'll lend an ear."

"Yes, yes, I'm sure. Um, perhaps later." He smiles again, feeling like his face might crack, and creeps away.

Gabriel has notes again. Gabriel always has notes. Aziraphale lets his mind drift, mulling over the problem.

He could find Tracy later, have a cup of what she refers to as tea, and ask her about the mysterious 'AJ'. But, knowing her, everyone else on site would know he'd been asking after the roustabout within the next twenty-four hours. Having said that, he'd already asked the Angels, and Hanzi and Liam. Who else would care?

"Are you listening?" Gabriel snaps, and Aziraphale's attention is drawn back to the table, and the plate of tuna pasta in front of him.

"No! I mean, yes! Yes, I'm listening."

He slinks back to the mess later, after everyone has eaten. There are still a few people about, mostly crew at this hour, scrounging for leftovers. He creeps round the back, where Tracy keeps her trailer. It's always spotlessly clean, but crammed full of strange trinkets. If you ask her, she could tell you where and how she got each one, and what they mean, what powers are ascribed to them. His skin prickles a little as he taps on the metal door with his knuckles. He doesn't hold much truck with fortune-telling, tarot cards and Ouija boards and the like, but it's still eerie, and the smell of patchouli makes his nose wrinkle as Tracy opens the door, bracelets jingling.

"Well, there you are! I've been expecting you. Come in, I've got tea on."

Aziraphale frowns slightly as he steps up into the caravan. He's sure that, no matter who knocked, Tracy would be 'expecting them'.

"Come on in, take a seat." She waves him to the sofa, draped in brightly colored throws. He sits delicately, not wanting to disturb the artfully arranged covers.

"Here you go, love." She shoves a mug of overly-milky, over-sweetened tea into his hands, and he murmurs his thanks as she settles herself down next to him.

"So. Tell me what's bothering you, dear." She gives him a small smile as he sips the tepid beverage and tries not to cringe under the scrutiny.

"Well." He sighs as he puts the mug down on the table. "I've been trying to find out about someone, but..."

"Oh! Got a little crush, have we?" She winks slyly, and Aziraphale feels his face heat.

"Uh, well, I mean, it's not, I-I don't..."

"It's all right, love, your secret's safe with me." Tracy purrs and pats his knee, which makes Aziraphale suddenly and absolutely certain that, of all the things his secret is, safe is not one of them.

"Um, actually, I think, on reflection, it's fine." He jerks up out of the seat, ignoring her look of shocked dismay. "Yes, I-I think, I'm better off not knowing. Um, but, thank you for the, uh, tea, and I'll... I'll just be... Off. Yes. Um, thank you!"

He flings himself out of the caravan and into the cool evening air.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hanzi is Romany, and his language reflects this.
> 
> Jugal - Stray dog, untrained dog, a dog with no owner  
Blokime - Pariah, outcast  
Rocker the jib - understand the lingo, 'you know what I'm saying?'
> 
> I also feel the need to say that he is not behaving like a dick because he's Roma. He's a Roma who just happens to be a dick. I felt it fitted with the world, and with the Hastur character. If anyone feels that it's inappropriate, let me know. I'm always looking to improve, both in writing and as a person, and I have no wish to offend anyone.


	3. Chapter 3

He refuses to allow it to affect his work. He's got enough going on without worrying about catching glimpses of the stocky, golden-haired man who had caught his eye in the mess tent. There's always something to do, in an operation of this size. Best to just stay busy, keep distracted. Deny that he's watching from the wings, refuse to acknowledge the hitch in his chest when he spots the blonde curls and shy smile. Stay out of the way. _If he finds out who you are he'll hate you._ So settle for the flash of sequins in spotlights, the eves-dropped gentle laugh all the more precious for being so rare. His knee is bothering him today, so he does what he can without putting too much strain on the joint. He wants to do more, wants to exhaust himself, but there's only so many jobs around a circus that you can do with a busted leg. He settles on cleaning, tidying the tiered wooden benches, preparing them for the evening. He rakes through the fresh sawdust, sweet-smelling and clean, and leaves the others to haul the heavy tarp over it, ready for the performers to spring into the ring when the sun dips low. He glances round to make sure everything's in order before loping off to find Shadwell.

The man in question is mooching around the mess tent, scowling and clutching a tin mug of tea.

"Ah, laddie, time for a brew, eh?" The Scotsman greets him gruffly, jutting his jaw out.

"Nah, 'm okay. Listen, I'm... my leg's a bit..."

"Say nae more, Anthony." Shadwell holds his hand up to halt his stammering explanation. "Awa' and rest yersel', take a pill, and mind you're ready for tonight."

"Thanks, Mister S. Appreciate it." Anthony ducks his head a little, and Shadwell scowls.

"Ach, awa' an bile yer heeid, ye bampot." He grunts. Anthony grins his lopsided smile and ducks out of the mess tent.

Shadwell is one of the few people still willing to exchange words with him, even if those words are liberally spiced with colorful invective. The old man means well, and Anthony knows that if Shadwell was to ever speak nicely to him, that'd mean he was _really_ in trouble.

Tracy, too, was happy to associate with him. She and her husband had known Anthony since before Anathema took over the circus. Tracy and Shadwell were the closest thing he had now to a _don't think it don't even think it_. Anathema had taken a while to warm up to him, and he to her, but he had grown to appreciate her no-nonsense manner, and her knack for managing people. Those three were the only ones who still called him Anthony.

The less said about the others the better.

He slips his sunglasses on as he slinks through the site. He's developed a sort of rolling stride, half-way between a limp and a swagger, that helps him keep his knee straight. He's pushed himself too hard, he knows. Still under doctor's orders, should have been more careful. He curls his lip at himself derisively as he swerves round a team moving a caravan to a fresh pitch, glances at his watch. Three-twenty, plenty of time to rest before they'll need him. Ibuprofen and elevation, then a few exercises and he should be fine for showtime.

"You! I say, you there! Uh, I mean, excuse me, I..."

Aziraphale is waiting for the kettle to boil when he catches sight of him through the window of his trailer. He's so startled by the sight of the lean figure stepping out from behind a caravan that the mug drops from his hand into the sink. He leaps through the door, half tripping down the step as he calls out.

"You! I say, you there! Uh, I mean, excuse me, I..."

The redhead _actually turns around_ to look over his shoulder, as if there could be _anyone_ else that Aziraphale could be trying to attract the attention of. When he realizes the shout was meant for him he _cringes,_ seems to shrink, and Aziraphale curses himself for his bluntness as he closes the gap between them.

"Sorry, sorry, I-I didn't mean... I, well, I wanted to..." He's fumbling, stumbling, words tumbling from numb lips, fingers fluttering. God, he's making a fool of himself, and it's his turn to wince in embarrassment. He can see himself reflected in the man's sunglasses, and immediately hates the tinted glass for its crime of hiding the man's eyes.

The redhead's shoulders are hunched up around his ears, as if he wishes he could disappear, hands shoved into black jeans, face averted.

Anthony wishes the ground would open up and swallow him. The Angel is _here_, right in front of him, stammering like a pillock, and all he can do is watch him from the corner of his eye and try to remember how to breathe. He wants more than anything to be cool, to be aloof and suave, but that person is long forgotten. The Angel stammers himself to a halt and stands there twisting his fingers together anxiously, and Anthony realizes that it's his turn to speak.

"You... want something?" He closes his eyes and curses himself. What he had meant to say was _'See something you like?'_ That would have been cool, witty, flirty.

"Oh... Um... Ah! Yes!" The blonde man stammers again, wringing his hands, then his face lights up with a broad beaming smile, and it's like the sun coming out. _Glad I'm wearing shades, good grief..._

"You... want something?"

Aziraphale gapes for a moment as his mind unhelpfully provides him with a dozen or so things that he'd like, right now, particularly involving the whip-thin chisel-jawed creature stood before him. _Something I want? Oh lord, I shouted at him, and now he wants to know why, because people don't just shout at each other for no reason!_

"Yes!" He blurts, because there _has_ to be an excuse he can give, and he'll think of _something,_ any moment now... "Yes! I, uh, my trailer, there's a... a problem?"

Anthony's mouth falls open.

"Was... was that a question?" He asks, in genuine confusion. _This guy's a fucking __**Angel**__ for chrissakes, why is he acting like I'm gonna bite him? _It'd be funny if it wasn't so desperately awkward, and if Anthony himself didn't feel like, at any moment, he might swallow his own tongue.

"Yes! No! I-I mean... No, not a question, but, um, would you help?" Aziraphale is _absolutely _grasping at straws now, and he feels like his throat is closing up. "I'm... I'm not good with, uh, practical, um, r-repairs and such, and I was wondering, that is, if you're not busy...?"

"Uh, no, not busy. What's the problem?" Anthony mumbles. Of course, there's a leaky shower-head or a loose cupboard door, that's all. Hot-shot Angel like him just didn't want to admit that he needs help from a roustabout. Anthony ducks his head as he follows the Angel back to his trailer, and tries his best not to watch the way the blonde man's muscular legs and buttocks shift under the jogging bottoms he's wearing and _fuck, he could snap me in __**half**__ with those thighs, dear __**god**__..._

"Yes! Here's the problem!" Aziraphale announces triumphantly as the redhead slinks into his trailer, one eyebrow raised over his dark glasses. Aziraphale gestures emphatically at the kettle.

"I don't... I mean, if it's electrical, then I can't..." the other man frowns.

"No! No, the kettle's working perfectly! The problem is... I put too much water in it."

"Too... too much..." The redhead gapes at him, bewildered. Aziraphale grins broadly.

"Yes! I... I boiled too much water, and it would be wasteful to let it cool, so now you're going to have a cup of tea with me!"


	4. Chapter 4

Anthony can't help it. He bursts out laughing.

It's probably the first proper laugh he's had in the last six months, and it brings tears to his eyes.

This beautiful, clever, wonderful Angel had been stammering and stumbling because he didn't know how to invite him in for tea. It's such a ridiculous situation that the joy of it bubbles up in his chest and bursts from his mouth in a completely inelegant hoot of mirth.

The Angel's smile slides sideways, quirking his mouth into a lopsided crescent of confusion.

"I-I'm sorry, have I done something wrong?"

"No! No, it's fine, it's fine!" Anthony wheezes, one hand on his shaking chest. "Fuck me, all that... You could have just _asked_ me!"

"Oh! Well, yes, but I didn't wish to seem too forward..."

"I'm sorry, I'm... I'm not laughing at you." Anthony smiles as best he can at the anxious-looking blonde. "Mine's white and none, thanks." At that, the other man's face breaks into a broad beaming grin.

_The Angel's face comes alive when he smiles! _Anthony thinks to himself as he's waved to the couch and takes a seat. As he glances around the trailer, he can't help but notice that every spare inch has been crammed with books. Cheap, tatty paperbacks vie for space with heavy leather-clad antiques. Strange stuff to be hauling around, when space is so tight.He watches through his sunglasses as the acrobat bustles around the little kitchen space, fussing over mugs and tea and milk as the water comes back to the boil.

"I'm sorry to have been so awkward, you see, I've been so looking forward to catching up with you, and I'm afraid I got quite carried away!" The Angel is wittering in his plummy voice, and Anthony can't help but find it endearing.

"Nothin' special about me, uh..." He looks questioningly at the blonde as he hands him a mug.

"Oh! So sorry, Aziraphale." The Angel says, sticking his hand out, and Anthony fumbles his mug to the table to shake it.

"Nice to meet you... Aziraphale." He says the name like he's tasting it, testing the fit of it in his mouth. Aziraphale blushes slightly as he sits across from the man.

"And you are... AJ, is that right?"

The redhead's face tightens slightly. "That's what they call me."

"Oh. Not your preferred name?" Aziraphale sips his tea and wonders how he can ask him to take those blasted sunglasses off without sounding rude.

"My friends call me Anthony." The roustabout mumbles.

"What would you like me to call you?" Aziraphale leans across the table, just a little.

"Call me Anthony." The thin lips twitch into a tentative smile.

"Anthony." Aziraphale smiles. "It's a pleasure to meet you."

Somehow all of the awkwardness has bled away, and Anthony finds himself leaning back into the sofa, getting himself comfortable.

"So. Aziraphale, how'd you end up here?" Anthony waves his hand, encompassing the little world of the circus.

"Oh, well, the same way a lot of folk do these days... Good lord, what have you done to your hand?"

Anthony frowns, looking at the offending palm. "Oh. 'S nothing, just a rope burn."

"But my dear boy, you can't possibly leave it like that!" And the Angel is up, blustering about in cupboards before pulling out a first aid kit.

"Oh, no, really, it's fine, just lost a bit of skin..."

"No-no-no, you must let me take care of it, I insist!" Aziraphale purses his lips as he regains his seat and grabs Anthony's arm, laying his hand out flat on the table between them. He tuts.

"Oh for goodness' sake, look at this!" He dabs at the raw skin with an antiseptic wipe.

"Come on, it's not that bad..." Anthony croaks.

"I suppose you were just going to carry on working, hmm? Honestly, at least let me wrap it for you."

"A-alright." Anthony mumbles. He can't remember the last time anyone had fussed over him like this. It's _nice_.

Aziraphale applies blister plasters on the worst of the burns, and then produces a roll of athletic tape. With a deft hand he creates a sling of tape and slips it over Anthony's middle finger and down over his palm, before securing it around his wrist.

"Right, now the other one."

Anthony doesn't even hesitate, just plonks his other hand on the table and lets Aziraphale tend to him. It's comforting, and soothing, to be touched with such tenderness. The Angel's big hands are as gentle as his voice, the strong fingers almost tentative as they move over his skin.

"There! Much better." Aziraphale announces as he releases Anthony's hand and looks up.

The redhead is staring at him over his sunglasses with shocking intensity, a look of guarded wonder on his narrow face. It's a look that makes his heart thump painfully in his chest, and all of a sudden it's too much.

"Ah!" Aziraphale tries for a laugh. "Goodness, look at me, fretting over you like a mother hen! I suppose that, well, I thought you might be lonely. I've noticed that the others don't seem to socialize with you and... um."

Anthony's face has frozen, his yellow eyes gone cold and hard where they stare over his glasses.

Just for a moment there had been a crack in his armor, and the Angel had so nearly seen through it. _Guard back up, don't let him see, don't let him in._

"Yeah, well, I'm used to it." He sits back, shoving his sunglasses up his nose to hide his eyes as he reaches for his tea.

"I... I'm sorry, Anthony, I didn't mean to upset you." Aziraphale murmurs, chastened.

"Not upset, don't worry about it." He tries for airy detachment, but his voice creaks. Damn it, this stupid Angel! Something about him makes Anthony want to talk, admit his sins, open his heart and beg forgiveness.

"You are, and I apologize. Please, let's put it behind us. I would still very much like to talk to you, if you'd like?"

"Sure. Sure, Aziraphale. Tell me about yourself."

"And that's how I ended up, well, here!"

"Huh. Quite a tale." Anthony drains the last of his tea and checks his watch. "Look, it's been great, but I've gotta go."

"Oh, must you?" Aziraphale is already halfway out of his seat as Anthony stands. "I'm afraid I've rather monopolized the conversation, I haven't heard anything about you!"

"Ah, sorry, it'll have to wait. I've got to get ready. And so do you."

"I'm not on until the second half. Please, have another tea..."

"No, no, I have to..." Anthony grits his teeth as he pushes himself up, one hand on the table. He can feel his knee creaking in protest and he curses himself. Should have taken those painkillers and done his physio, instead he's been sitting here stiffening up.

"My... my dear boy, what's wrong?"

Too much to hope that the bloody Angel hadn't noticed his grimace. Anthony swings himself out from behind the table and towards the door.

"It's nothing, got a bad knee. I need to go and..."

"Oh, I've got paracetamol, or ibuprofen..."

"No!" It's not a shout, not quite, but he needs to stop this now because he knows that the next words out of the angel's mouth are going to be...

"What happened?"

_Lie. Just lie. You know how to lie, you've done it over and over again. Now is no different. Tripped down some steps, kicked by a horse, slipped with the sledgehammer. So many ways to get hurt in a circus._

He looks back. He shouldn't have looked back. Because the Angel is standing, looking at him, all wide blue eyes and soft concern, and he can't lie, not like this, not to his face.

  
  


_Tell him. He deserves to know the truth. Tell him who you are, and end it. Because once he knows, he'll never talk to you again, just like the others._

  
  
  


"Fine." Anthony snarls. He bends down and grabs the leg of his jeans, dragging it up to show the heavy brace, under which livid scars run down either side of his knee.

"You see this? This is my fault, you understand? You want to know why no-one talks to me? I'm bad luck. There was an accident, people got hurt, and it was _my fault._ There, you happy?"

"A-Anthony... I'm so..."

"I fell off the highwire, and I took them with me, and it was _my_ mistake, and everyone knows it. They know, if they get close it'll happen to them, so they stay away, and you should too."

"That's ridiculous, you can't..."

"No, don't. Just... just stay away from me. Don't let my bad luck rub off on you, yeah? See you around."

"But, but, Anthony!"

He's gone, lurching down the step and limping away across the grass.


	5. Chapter 5

Aziraphale doesn't believe in luck. He holds no truck with talismans and trinkets, throwing salt over your shoulder or crossing your fingers. But the circus is a world of superstitions and magic, a world within the world. The ring is a gateway, and what you bring into it sends ripples through the tiny universe within, for good or ill. Don't whistle. Never wear green. Always step into the ring with your right foot first. Don't look behind you in the parade.

_When Anthony had arrived in the big top on the day of the accident, there was a magpie trapped inside, flapping against the canvas. He hadn't told anyone, and had managed to shoo it out of the back door before anyone else had arrived._

The circus, like the theater, is a place between realities. You step inside, and for two hours you are somewhere else, somewhere magical, where people can fly and horses can dance and objects defy gravity. The people who inhabit the circus tread a fine line between the two worlds. Yes, the big top is a place of light, and laughter, and beauty. But for those who toil under the canvas, who's sweat soaks the sawdust, it is also a place of danger, fear and shadows.

_The Angels are a serious troupe, modern, cutting-edge. But Aziraphale had seen Yael make the sign of the cross before entering the ring, and Samuel had a crucifix sewn into his costume, safe and secure against his chest._

It had been a steep learning curve for Aziraphale, and he had learned early-on not to mock or scoff the superstitions, because everyone had a story about so-and-so who's uncle had once known a man who had a peacock feather in his hat and ended up with a broken arm... and well, in a place like the circus, stories have a life of their own. Who's to say what's true?

He muses on this as he warms up, allowing his mind to drift to Anthony. The idea that a person could be a harbinger of disaster is absurd. People make their own luck, have the power of free will. So he had an accident. That doesn't mean that everyone who gets close to him is doomed.

Does it?

He drops into the focused state he needs when he steps into the ring (right foot first) and scrambles up the rope ladder to take his place.

He doesn't smile.

He warms down, heads to the mess, eats and listens to Gabriel's notes, and walks back to his trailer. He moves in a distracted haze, his mind full of auburn hair and angry golden eyes, livid scars and ill omens. He's on edge, too anxious to sleep, simply lies on his bed staring at the roof above him and thinking.

The next day is a whirlwind of activity as the roustabouts begin dropping the top. The performers scurry to stow their gear, checking each part of their equipment is packed properly before tending to their props and costumes, and finally personal belongings. Somewhere someone is singing, an old rope-hauling song to keep the men in time as they drop the king pole, and the canvas sags like a gigantic creature heaving its dying breath.

Aziraphale battens down his belongings, checking the braces on the bookshelves and latching the cupboards before circling the outside of the trailer, making sure he's left nothing behind.

There's a team of roustabouts combing the grass behind the caravans as they leave, checking for lost items, picking litter. Leave a pitch in a mess and you'll not be asked back. That's not superstition, that's just plain common sense.

Aziraphale takes a last look around at the trampled ground and flattened pathways. The smell of popcorn and candyfloss lingers a little, and horses, and the heavy earthy scent of canvas and rope. Soon there'll be no evidence that they had ever been here, save for the patches of yellow grass, and memories. He shivers, although the sun is hot on his back.

The new site is a day's drive away, and it's almost full dark by the time everyone has pitched up and staked their claim to their spot for the next week. The horsepeople are out, exercising their charges, restless from the journey. The big top won't be up until tomorrow, too dark for the tricky work, but the stakes are out and, under floodlights, the roustabouts are hammering the huge steel pegs into place, delineating the circumference.

Thankfully the first place to be fully operational is the mess tent. An army marches on its stomach, and the same is true of a travelling circus. Aziraphale is late to the mess, having made sure his precious books have survived the journey intact. He's picking his way back across what will become the back yard, but is for now just another patch of grass, when he spots the lean black-clad figure.

"Anthony!" He tries not to put too much emotion into his voice, but it sounds unnaturally high.

The redhead's shoulders hunch as he flinches, startled and shocked. He whirls around, and Aziraphale is suddenly caught in the lambent gaze of two blazing amber eyes as Anthony stalks rapidly towards him. Without a word Anthony slams his palm flat to Aziraphale's chest and shoves him into the shadows between two caravans.

"What the _fuck_ is your problem?" He snarls, teeth bared.

"I-I beg your pardon?"

"Bloody shouting my _name_ across the yard like I'm a dog you're trying to bring to heel! The fuck are you _doing?"_

Aziraphale bristles. "I was trying to attract your attention!"

"Well fucking _don't!_ I wasn't joking when I said you should stay away from me..."

"And I think it's nonsense!" Aziraphale draws himself up, gathering his dignity. "The idea that you could be some harbinger of disaster..."

"Who knows who heard you shout my name? Did you think about that? If Gabriel found out you knew me he'd have your head, you know that? Or didn't you think about what..."

"I have done nothing _but_ think since I saw you last, and I think this superstition about you is rot, plain and simple!"

Anthony snarls and straightens, and for the first time Aziraphale realizes that the redhead is taller than he is. It's almost shocking to see how cowed the man had been, how bent his back.

"I know what I am, and you need to stay the fuck away from me, because I don't want you..." He snaps his head sideways, averting his gaze, teeth grinding.

"Because you're worried for me?" Aziraphale breathes. His heart leaps suddenly in his chest.

"This is ridiculous, _you're _ridiculous, I don't know why we're still talking." Anthony spins on his heel, and impulsively Aziraphale grabs his arm, jerking him to a halt.

"Wait, just let me speak!"

Anthony grimaces and shakes his arm free, but doesn't move away. Aziraphale takes a breath.

"All right, just listen, I... When the top's set up tomorrow, we're running through a new routine, and I need a mechanic. I wanted to ask you..."

"Absolutely not. No way." The redhead shakes his head, mouth twisted.

"Look, this is a chance to prove that you're not what they think you are! It's more than likely that you won't have to do anything..."

"What if it all goes pear-shaped, hmm? What if I fuck it up again..."

"You won't, Anthony. I trust you."

Anthony stares at him for a moment mouth open, before he barks a short mirthless laugh.

"You're insane! You don't know me from Adam! We've spent all of ten minutes together."

"I am aware of that. Nevertheless, I feel that I can trust you."

"I..." Anthony couldn't remember the last time someone had said that to him. It felt like being punched. "I don't know if you can."

"Well then, come to our rehearsal tomorrow and we'll find out, hmm?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Haul down, lads  
Pass the bevvy round, lads  
Tara to Silvie, tara to Jean  
We'll soon be on the road  
Don't think on what you're leaving  
Don't think on what you've found  
Just tear off the tilt, pull out the chat  
We'll find another ground
> 
> Haul down, lads  
It wasn't a bad ground, lads  
We've made some brass, you've had a lass  
It's perhaps as well we're going  
I know how it can hurt, lads  
To leave her standing there  
But there's often fears  
And there's always tears  
But you'll be back next year
> 
> Pull down, lads  
The sets are cooling down, lads  
The ark's all packed and the dodgem's stacked  
A bite of scran and go  
We'll leave it as we found it  
They'll soon forget we've been  
Oh, we trade in fun, and we go and come  
We're often scorned and seldom mourned  
Oh, I hope you know what I mean


	6. Chapter 6

He shouldn't have come.

He knows that with dull certainty as he stands in the wings, a sliver of shadow against the canvas. There's nothing for him here, in this hustle and bustle of light and laughter. They don't want him here, would turn him out if they knew.

Well, everyone except for _him._

He watches as Aziraphale scrambles nimbly up the rope ladder. No sequins today, just rough work clothes, snug enough to his body that they won't catch or snag or snarl on the equipment. Tight enough that they show every muscle, every curve...

Anthony grits his teeth and directs his gaze down to the ring, where a roustabout is acting as the catcher's mechanic. Today the net is out, and the catcher has a harness and line. They'll take no chances while they're rehearsing.

The mechanic's job is to keep the line taut, but loose enough that the acrobat's movement isn't impeded. If the performer slips or stumbles, the mechanic pulls the line, and they are saved from a fall. Should that fail, the net is there.

Anthony fights to keep his breathing even as Aziraphale gains the board. He watches the aerialist check his harness and then the line, before sliding down onto the catch bar. Aziraphale doesn't seem nervous, only focused, and Anthony tunes out the murmur of their voices and watches intently, waiting for the first movement with baited breath.

As with any discipline, trapeze has its own language, full of strange terms that confound the uninitiated. Anthony can't pretend to understand the chatter, the words unfamiliar and meaningless. He only knows that this is difficult, and dangerous, and that the Angel had trusted him enough to want him to help. He hopes against hope that he can, someday, be worthy of that trust. In the meantime he watches, and inhales sharply through his teeth as the mechanic reels the rope in and the trapeze starts to swing.

The roustabout they've got on the end of Aziraphale's line is a sturdily-built chap, with sharp eyes and steady hands. Anthony knows him well enough, a Roma guy called Sean, rough and ready but able. Not that they're friends or anything. Just colleagues. No-one would dare call AJ friend.

Sean keeps the line taut, lets it give with the swing and reels it in as necessary, and Anthony gives him silent grudging respect. Seems he wasn't needed after all, Sean knows what he's about.

Gabriel is directing from the ring, shouting out the moves, and Yael drops down to the fly bar, hurling herself through the air, piking her lean body to build momentum.

"Double-double, go!" Gabriel shouts, and Yael releases the bar at the apex of the swing, tucks her knees to her chest and flips. As she straightens she flips again and corkscrews, arms tucked tight to her chest, rotating the length of her body twice before her arms snap out, and Aziraphale is stretching towards her, hands grasping, but she's falling too fast. Their fingers brush, and Aziraphale reaches out to try and grab her as she plummets past him, and his legs straighten too much, and suddenly he's _falling_, crying out in shock. The cable snaps taut and Sean is jerked off his feet and Anthony is _running_, darting forward to throw himself bodily onto the line. He can feel it ripping through his fingers, can't hear anything but shrill whistling in his ears as his vision whites out when the back of his head hits the floor, clutching the rope to his chest with his hands and knees, embracing it desperately, and all he can think is _not again, not again, not again._

It takes a moment before he can see straight, before the ringing in his ears subsides to a thrumming of dull panic.

"... down, I'm okay! Let me down!"

Anthony finds his feet and pushes himself up, and Sean comes back down to earth. He looks pale and shaken.

"Thanks." He mumbles, before his eyes widen. "Shit, AJ! What are _you_ doing here?"

"My job. Don't worry about it." Anthony growls, letting out the cable hand-over-hand and lowering the Angel into the net. As soon as Aziraphale is cradled safely Anthony lets go of the line and lurches into the ring, catching the aerialist as he tumbles out of the safety net.

"Are you okay? Are you hurt?" His voice is strained and unnaturally high as he unbuckles the harness, and then the Angel's hands are covering his own, holding them tight.

"I'm fine, really Anthony, I'm okay." His voice is shaking with adrenaline but his hands are steady where they grip Anthony's work-worn fingers.

"_Fuck_, Aziraphale, I thought..."

"The hell is _he_ doing here!?" Gabriel's voice is sharp and loud, and it's enough to make Anthony leap back away from the Angel, guilt and shame written across his face.

"AJ!" Gabriel barks as he stalks towards them. "You mind telling me what the fuck you're doing?"

"Just watching." Anthony mumbles, shoving his hands in his pockets and backing up, turning his face away from the trainer's wrath.

"Wait! Gabriel, please!" Aziraphale's voice is rough with tension. "He was helping, I asked him..."

"Stay out of this, Aziraphale." Gabriel growls at the aerialist before rounding on Anthony, who cowers before him. "What did I say about being in the top when we're rehearsing? Keep your bad luck to yourself!"

"But he helped!" Aziraphale puts a hand to Gabriel's arm, "He grabbed the line..."

"And if he hadn't been here you might not have fallen at all!" Gabriel snarls, shaking his arm free. He glares at Anthony, who shrinks under the heat of his gaze.

"I know." Anthony mutters. "It's fine, I'm going."

"Oh, a fine time to leave, when the damage is done!" Gabriel snaps. Anthony flinches and turns, slinking away.

Aziraphale watches his retreating back before turning to his trainer.

"Gabriel, please, it wasn't his fault, he did nothing wrong."

"Tell that to his parents." Gabriel's lip curls as he watches Anthony leave the tent. "Now come on, let's go over what went wrong. And, Aziraphale? If I catch him hanging around again, you and I will be having words."

_I should have gone after him _Aziraphale thinks, lying in his bed and staring at the roof of his trailer. The rest of the day had been almost totally uneventful. They were opening tomorrow, and he knew he needed to rest. Still, he couldn't stop his mind from whirling. What had Gabriel meant about Anthony's parents? Is it possible that one person could have luck so bad that it would affect everyone they came into contact with? It's true that he had fallen, but he might have fallen anyway, whether the redhead had been there or not. He rakes his hands through his disorderly blonde curls. Superstition, rumor, mystery. He should do as everyone told him and leave Anthony alone. Yet every time he tried to sleep he saw blazing auburn hair, thin hunched shoulders, and a haunted look hidden behind tinted glasses.

He spends the morning exercising, working his body to try and distract himself. Skipping, weights, shadow-boxing, and then a jog around the perimeter to cool down before a shower. It almost works, except that as he pounds around the site he can't help but wish for a glimpse of Anthony.

Opening night in a new town is always exciting. You never know what the crowd will be like, how many tickets have been sold. As Aziraphale makes his way to the padroom he allows his anticipation to build with the noise of the crowd, the shrieks of over-excited children, the shouts and calls of the vendors hawking souvenirs, programs and snacks.

The other Angels are assembled already, and he greets them with a smile.

The show is as close to perfect as they can make it but Gabriel still has notes, and Aziraphale listens as best he can, his fork moving automatically from plate to mouth, until the curry is jerked out from under his nose and he looks up in shock.

"Tracy giving you extra again? We'll have to let your costume out if you carry on." Samuel sneers, and Gabriel purses his lips as he takes the plate and shoves it to the end of the table.

"Sam's right, you need to watch your weight. Either work it off, or cut down, got it?"

"Yes, yes of course." Aziraphale mumbles, putting his fork down on his tray. He doesn't need to look at the others to know that Yael is frowning and Michelle rolling her eyes scornfully.

When the notes are done he puts the plate on his tray and returns it to Tracy, who quirks an eyebrow at him.

"Everything alright, dear?" She asks, eyeing him suspiciously.

"Yes, yes... No." He admits with a sigh. She gives him a gentle smile as she takes the tray.

"You'll come round later for a nice cup of tea." She pronounces, and he smiles ruefully.

Her caravan is just as cluttered and hectic as it was last time he was here, and her tea just as dismal as he remembered. He sips it anyway as she sits down opposite him, fluffing her skirts.

"So. Tell me what's on your mind."

He sighs. "There's someone. I'm... I'm worried about him."

"Hmm." She frowns. "Don't suppose you'd tell me who?"

"I'm... not sure I should. He's a very... private person."

"I see." She picks up an ornate deck of cards and begins to shuffle them. "What's the worry? He's keeping himself to himself, is that it? Wish you could get to know him better?"

"Well, yes, but, I don't think he really _wants_ to be alone. He's... ostracized, by the others, and I think it hurts him, but I don't know how I can help."

"I see." She's flicking through the cards, discarding most to one side with her lips pursed. Aziraphale frowns and puts his mug down sharply.

"Look, if you're not going to listen to me..."

"Don't sass me, young man." She murmurs. "I'm multi-tasking."

"Well I'd appreciate it if you could do me the decency of looking at me when I'm talking!" He snaps, and Tracy looks up at him with piercing eyes.

"What did he ask you to call him?" She says, her eyes never leaving his as she lays the cards out face down on the table and spreads them into disorder with her crimson-nailed fingers.

"I... I don't see that it's any business of yours..." Aziraphale stammers, and she shakes her head slightly.

"Pick three, just touch them with your finger." She commands. He feels his cheeks heat.

"This is ridiculous, you know I don't believe in..."

"You're talking about AJ, don't think I don't know, because he was in here last night worrying himself to shreds over you, so you pick three cards and tell me what he told you to call him."

Aziraphale's mouth drops open, and his throat works for a moment before he snaps his jaw shut and taps his finger on three random cards.

"He... he told me to call him Anthony." He murmurs.

"Thank you." Says Tracy, pulling the cards he's selected towards her and sweeping the rest to the edge of the table. He watches mutely as she flips them over and studies them for a moment, her brow furrowed.

"Right." She shoves herself up abruptly and grabs his hand. "Come with me."

He doesn't protest as she leads him out into the night, away from the top and deeper into the site, until she stops in front of a small caravan.

"This is his. He didn't show up for work today, and I've an inkling why. You mind and be gentle with him now, he's suffered enough." She shoves Aziraphale towards the door of the caravan and whirls away in a cloud of patchouli.

When she gets back to her caravan she looks mournfully at the tarot cards Aziraphale had picked.

The Hermit, inverted. The Wheel of Fortune, inverted. Judgement. She sighs and sweeps them back into the deck.


	7. Chapter 7

"A-Anthony?" Aziraphale taps on the door hesitantly, calls the man's name as softly as he can.

_He's probably asleep._ Aziraphale frowns at the light spilling from the uncurtained windows. _Or reading._ Somehow he can't imagine the wiry redhead curled round a novel. He taps the door again, steels himself, and lets himself in.

The air inside is thick with smoke. The lanky roustabout is lying diagonally across the small bed, cigarette in one hand, a bottle of something in the other. Aziraphale frowns and opens a vent, scowls at the vomit in the sink before turning on the tap and sluicing it away.

"Anthony. It's me."

One long arm moves, and Anthony raises the cigarette in an idle salute before bringing it to his lips.

"Zrfl." He coughs. It might have been the Angel's name.

"I saw Tracy, she said you didn't work today." Aziraphale opens another vent before plucking the dangling cigarette from the redhead's fingers and dropping it into the sink.

"Yup. Too hungover to work this morning."

"And now you're drunk again." The Angel leans against the small table, arms folded. Anthony shoves himself up on his elbow to open the bottle.

"Correct! Ten points to Gryffindor." He swigs from the bottle before regarding the scowling aerialist. "Nah. Hufflepuff. Wait, blonde. Slytheryn."

"I'm a Ravenclaw, actually." Aziraphale snatches the bottle from Anthony's hand and opens the door to tip out the contents onto the grass, ignoring the protests of the roustabout.

"You're a bastard, is what you are! My fuckin' whisky, you bugger!"

"Is there any more alcohol in here?" Aziraphale regards him balefully, and Anthony shakes his head.

"Nope."

"Are you lying to me?"

"Nope."

"Are you telling the truth?"

"Nope."

Aziraphale sighs and begins opening cupboards and drawers. "Honestly Anthony, what are you thinking?"

"I'm thinking, you're cute when you're angry." He gives a wobbly smirk, and Aziraphale scowls.

"Well then I'm about to get downright _adorable. _Tell me where you've hidden your drink."

"Oh, you fancy one? Me too. Try under the sink."

Aziraphale finds a bottle of vodka. "Next to the bleach? For goodness' sake, it's as if you're _trying_ to kill yourself." The Angel grumbles as the vodka follows the whisky out of the door to soak away into the ground.

"Nah, cupboard for that's in the bathroom."

Aziraphale snaps his gaze to Anthony's face and glares at him for a moment before darting to the little toilet area. The contents of the medicine cabinet all but fall onto him as he opens the mirrored door.

"Good lord, you've got half a pharmacy in here! What on earth...?" He reads the boxes. Cocodamol, morphine, tramadol, citalopram... He pauses, and then carefully puts the packets back on the shelves. He turns to look at Anthony again, who's busy lighting another cigarette with shaking hands.

"Yeah. Like to stay topped up. Never know when I can get a per-psk-pre... thing."

"Anthony..." Aziraphale slowly crosses the small space to sit on the end of the bed. "What's going on? Please talk to me."

Anthony takes a deep drag, huffs the smoke out of his nose. "Well, if y'r drunk, you can't work, and they can't make you. So, if I stay drunk they'll kick me out, and then it'll all be over."

"What will?"

"This whole fuckin' mess! _Fuck_." He rakes a hand through his hair. "'M not drunk enough for this."

"There's nothing in here for you to drink." Aziraphale chides him gently.

"Aww, really? Try the overhead bin." Anthony gestures with his thumb.

There's a bottle of whisky tucked in between two ledgers and a binder. As he reaches up for the bottle Aziraphale traces his fingers over the spine of the binder.

"What's this? Looks like a photo album."

"What? Oh, yeah. Old shit. Fuck it, throw it out with the booze."

Aziraphale draws it out along with the bottle and regains his seat on the end of the bed, binder on his knees. Anthony reaches eagerly for the whisky and the Angel snatches it away and puts it on the floor to open the album.

The first picture is of a wedding. A happy couple, wreathed in smiles and laughter. She's wearing flowers in her auburn hair, there are petals falling around them where they stand in the doorway of a registry office. Aziraphale brushes his fingers over their smiling faces before turning the page.

A small skinny boy is sitting on a grey draft horse. He looks tiny on its broad back, but he's grinning furiously, red hair in disarray and both front teeth missing.

"It's you." Aziraphale murmurs. Anthony hauls himself up and shuffles across the bed to sit next to him and look at the photo.

"Yup. Smashed my teeth out climbing a fence. I mean, they w're gonna fall out anyway, I just gave 'em a shove. Ended up wi' two grown-up teeth, front and center." He huffs a laugh. "I asked my Dad where I came from once, said Mum pulled me outta a hat." He takes another drag of the cigarette as Aziraphale flips the page back over to look at the happy couple.

"Your parents?"

"Yup." Anthony croaks around the smoke.

Aziraphale flicks forward. The man is there, grinning, the big top behind him. His wife is holding his hand, all smiles. Young Anthony is sitting on his father's shoulders, arms thrown wide, as if he's presenting an act. Aziraphale smiles at the scene.

"You've got your mother's hair. And your father's nose."

Anthony hums in agreement. Aziraphale turns the page.

A high-wire, seen from below. The man, pole held steady in his hands, toeing his way across the line. Perched on his shoulders his beautiful wife, sequinned dress shimmering in the lights, with a parasol held in one hand to steady her. Clutched to her breast is a russet-haired boy, his thin legs wrapped around her waist, one arm outstretched in a flourish.

"Good God." Aziraphale breathes. He looks at the photo, then up at the man sat next to him, then back at the photo. Flips the page.

It's blank. He flips again, and again, but there are no more photos. And then, right at the back are some newspaper clippings, shoved in haphazardly. Adverts for the Eden Circus, vouchers, flyers. Articles with lurid headlines.

BIG TOP TRAGEDY; ONE DEAD, TWO INJURED IN HORROR FALL

THE CIRCUS MOURNS; WOMAN DIES IN TRAGIC ACCIDENT

ONE DEAD AND TWO CRIPPLED IN STUNT GONE WRONG

"Dear Lord." Aziraphale finds his voice. "You're Anthony _Crowley_."

"Nah. I'm Anthony Crowley _Junior_. Anthony Crowley was my Dad." Anthony reaches for the whisky and Aziraphale doesn't stop him. The roustabout twists the cap off and swigs from the bottle, grimaces as he passes it to the Angel, who declines with a shake of his head.

"'S a great trick, if you can do it. You've probably seen it." Anthony puts the bottle down and sucks on the cigarette fiercely. "So, you got two guys, yeah? They've got a pole on their shoulders, like a-a whatsit, yoke, between them, one in front of the other. And then, right, you get someone on the pole, so it's like a wire on top of the wire, you know?" He leans over Aziraphale to crush the cigarette out viciously into an ashtray on the little table. "And I said I was ready, we tried it on the ground and it was fine. I can walk the wire, I'm young and fuckin' cocky, so full of it, prick. So we've got the net out, and Mum's on a line too, coz of her bein' higher up. Well, this fucking arsehole right here slips, doesn't he? And I fuckin' panic, like a cunt. So I'm goin' one way, my pole's goin' the other, the yoke's off my shoulders and it's dragging Dad down."

He lights another cigarette and draws on it. Aziraphale can't look at him.

"So there I am, falling, and it's like, all slow motion or summat, I can see everything. And I remember thinkin', 'that's weird', coz Mum's just sorta dangling in her harness, and then I hit the net on my back, but my foot goes right through, next thing is my knee's all twisted up sideways and it hurts like _fuck._ Then Dad comes down, but, right, where the yoke came off me all sideways it's pulled him off line, so he hits the net and bounces out, hits the fuckin' sawdust arse first. So he's lying there screaming, and I never heard a man scream before and I sure as shit hope I never do again. And I'm howlin', my whole leg feels like it's on fire or summat, and Mum's just hanging up there, and then there's people shouting, an-an' paramedics and ambulances."

He fumbles the cap off the bottle and takes another swig of whisky, coughs as he screws the cap on and wipes the back of his mouth with his hand.

"Turns out the line wasn't tight, so when Mum went over, she fell on the wire. Right on her neck." He clicks his fingers. It's a small noise, but Aziraphale flinches like it's a gunshot.

"Dead. Snapped her neck. Pop. Jus' like that." He slurs the line like Tommy Cooper, hands outstretched in front of him as if he's presenting a magic trick. He grimaces and sucks another lungful of tobacco smoke.

"Well. Next thing I know, I'm in hospital. Dislocated my knee, busted my ACL and PCL. All fucked up on pain meds too, an' I'm askin' where my parents are... Turns out my Dad doesn't want to see me. Coz he broke his fuckin' back, an' doctor says he's not gonna walk again, not on flat ground, let alone on a wire. An-an' they tell him..." Anthony takes a deep shuddering breath and Aziraphale looks at him then.

Anthony's eyes are red, brimming with tears as he drags on the cigarette, his face tight. There's a muscle jumping under his eye, and Aziraphale wants desperately to reach out and cradle the man's face in his hands.

"They tell him his wife's dead." Anthony's voice breaks, and the tears roll down his cheeks. "I think that's what did it for him. Maybe he could've dealt with not being able to walk the wire again, bu-but she was the love of his life, you know?" He sucks at the cigarette again. "He wouldn't see me. He knew, he fucking _knew _it was my fault. So he waited until all the nurses had gone home for the night, a-a-an' he tied the sheets together." Another gasping, shuddering breath. "Hung himself out the window."

Anthony drops the cigarette butt onto the floor of the caravan and grinds it out with his foot.

Aziraphale is frozen. His heart is hammering in his ears.

"Anthony..." He tries, but it's barely more than an exhalation.

"Bunch of people left the circus after. Couldn't bear to stay on, not after that. Lots of questions asked, 'bout safety measures an' stuff. That's why He sold up. Couldn't live with it, I reckon. Anathema got the whole lot for a song, coz no-one wants to take on a circus with a curse on it. That's _me_, that is. A-an' she let me stay, coz I got nowhere else to be. 'S why they call me AJ. The ones that were here before, in Eden, they remember the fall. They know. So they don't wanna say my name, 'case they bring it down on 'emselves. And then _you _came along."

Aziraphale flinches. The bitterness in Anthony's voice is palpable.

"I was _fine._ I was gonna be AJ for the rest of my fuckin' life, jus' shoveling horse shit an' doing whatever, and then there's _you_, all bright an' shining. A-and you made me remember what I lost, what I could have been. And I couldn't stay away, coz I'm a _cunt,_ an' I watch you rehearsing from the wings, an' I sneak in the shows, a-an you're so... _you._ Just bloody, _you_. And, and I think, I can't get close, coz the curse'll getcha, and then yesterday you asked, you fucking _asked_ you pillock, and you _fell_, so now I'm gonna get myself kicked out and that's that. Fuck it. No-one else gonna fall coz of me."

Aziraphale sits very still. His mind is whirling. This is Anthony Crowley Junior. Everyone remembers, everyone involved in circus was shaken by the fall. It's so rare these days, it had rocked the whole community. And now he was in _his_ caravan, listening to the whole tale, what really happened that day, and instead of some monster it's just a young man, broken and weary beyond his years, crying like a lost child and drinking his sorrow away.

Aziraphale makes a decision. He shoves himself up and rifles through the cupboards for a glass, fills it with water, and thrusts it into Anthony's hands.

"The fuck is this?" Anthony turns his red-rimmed eyes up to look at the Angel in confusion.

"Water. And, wait..." He's back a moment later, handing Anthony two tablets. "Ibuprofen. Take them, drink the water."

"The fuck for?"

"Because I've decided I'm going to look after you."

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ligero y libre
> 
> Como un tul
> 
> Un velo
> 
> En el cielo azul
> 
> Divino y calmo
> 
> Sobre el mar
> 
> Volando el pájaro es un rey
> 
> Sus ojos miran del mundo triste
> 
> Su alma llora de compasión
> 
> La bella soledad
> 
> Légère et douce
> 
> A en pleurer
> 
> L'ivresse
> 
> De pouvoir s'envoler
> 
> Diamantes de lune
> 
> Sur l'eau qui dort
> 
> C'est ton chemin de conquistador
> 
> Tes yeux ne voient que le feu du ciel
> 
> La terre a posé des chaînes à tes ailes
> 
> La terre a posé des chaînes à tes ailes
> 
> Pour te garder près d'elle


	8. Chapter 8

The first thing is pain. His head hurts, his stomach is sour and cramping, body aching, mouth dry.

Then, as his gummy eyes open, light, far too bright and lancing straight through to his brain. He groans and clamps his eyes shut again.

"Good morning!" The voice is entirely too cheerful. Anthony groans and wraps his arm around his head. It doesn't help, he can't breathe through his own elbow, so he rolls onto his back and forces himself to open his eyes again.

"Wrstfg."

"I'm making tea. Would you like some?"

Anthony works his dry mouth for a moment, staring at the roof of his caravan. "Bleaugh."

"I'll take that as a yes."

The teaspoon is far too loud when it rattles into the mug, the kettle growling and spitting. Anthony moans piteously again.

"Don't expect me to have any sympathy, your situation is entirely of your own making."

Anthony grits his teeth and forces himself to sit up, and then waits a moment for the universe to stop rocking around him.

Aziraphale is in his caravan, making him tea. The Angel turns and flashes him a smile so bright that his eyes close reflexively.

"Wh... what?" It's about all he can manage. His throat feels tight and dry.

"Well, after I saw what a state you were in I thought I'd stay, if only to make sure you didn't swallow you own tongue."

Had he full command of his faculties, Anthony may have arched an eyebrow and said 'I'd rather swallow yours.' Instead what he says is; "Did I... I mean, did we...?"

"You were a perfect gentleman." Aziraphale rattles the spoon in the mug again and Anthony winces. "Well, perhaps that's not _entirely_ true, but you didn't make any untoward advances, if that's what you're worried about."

"'Kay. That's good."

"How are you feeling?"

"Um... Like someone took my brain out and played football with it."

Aziraphale hands him a mug and two tablets, and Anthony looks down at the dark liquid with a frown.

"Uh, I usually..."

"White and none, yes, I remember." Aziraphale sniffs. "This is black with three."

"Eeeurgh."

"Milk will do your stomach no good, and you'll need the sugar and caffeine. Did you know tea has a higher caffeine content than coffee? Well, I mean it's technically true, although coffee tends to end up stronger because of the brewing process... Well anyway, drink up, take the painkillers, and then get yourself ready."

"Why, is it late?" Anthony sips the drink cautiously, grimacing at the unfamiliar sweetness.

"Still quite early, don't worry. I assume you have some work-out clothes?"

"Uh, yeah, I think..."

"Good!" Aziraphale claps his hands together decisively. "Pop them on and meet me in the padroom in twenty minutes. Oh, and _do_ take a shower and brush your teeth, you smell like a pub carpet."

With that, the Angel sweeps out of the door. Anthony is left staring open-mouthed after him.

"The fuck are you, my wife?" He snipes weakly at the closed door. When there's no answer he takes the tablets and drinks the tea.

When he slouches into the padroom twenty-five minutes later in a baggy tee shirt and jogging bottoms, sunglasses shielding his red eyes from the world, Aziraphale is on a bench pressing a barbell. Anthony silently counts up the weight of the plates and tries to stop himself from drooling.

"Ah, there you are!" Aziraphale grins over at him and slots the barbell into the catches and sits up, wiping his face with a towel. "Could you spot me?"

"Looked to me like you were doing just fine." Anthony thinks he manages to keep his voice even as the Angel flashes him that smile again.

"Oh, I was just warming up!" Aziraphale hops up and all but skips to the stack of weight plates, racking them up as Anthony moves to stand at the head of the bench. He watches anxiously as the Angel adds the extra plates.

"You know I'm not strong enough to hold that up, right?" Anthony admits. Aziraphale smiles at him indulgently.

"Oh, it's quite all right. You'll just be here in case I need a hand, that's all." He slithers under the barbell and fastens his hands around it, flexing his fingers into place, ensuring a good grip. Anthony's mouth goes dry.

Aziraphale lifts the bar off the catches and lowers it carefully to his chest. Anthony watches his form as he presses.

"Bloody hell, I think you could bench press _me._"

Aziraphale breathes a laugh as he pushes the bar up again. "Silly thing, of course I could."

Anthony's hands are twitching by his sides, ready to grab the bar if Aziraphale shows even a hint of struggling, but it looks like the aerialist has hardly broken a sweat. Still, it's hard to dispel the lingering anxiety. He's here, so something's bound to go wrong. Isn't it? His fingers twitch again, and he can't tell if he wants to grab the bar or the man pushing it.

"Give me a hand up, there's a love." Aziraphale murmurs, then gives a breathy grunt as he shoves the bar up one last time. Anthony grabs it and helps Aziraphale ease it up into the catches, silently vowing that he will do whatever it takes to get the Angel to make that noise again.

"Right!" Aziraphale sits up, dabbing his brow demurely with his towel. "What would you like to do?"

"Gnrk." Anthony's brain unhelpfully provides him with a number of delightful scenarios. "Uh, um, I haven't... I mean, with my knee..."

"Oh! Of course." Aziraphale springs to his feet. "Well, what about yoga? Get your body moving, yes? You'll feel better for it."

"Sure." Anthony shrugs, grabbing a mat and setting his sunglasses aside. He takes a moment to breathe before he folds himself over, bending his head to his knees. He places his palms flat to the mat and steps back to plank for a moment, then lowers himself to the floor before arching his back up, craning his head back over his shoulders. The movement sparks a sharp jolt of pain into his head, and he grimaces.

"Dear." Aziraphale tuts. "You really are far too tense."

"Mmm." Anthony makes a non-committal sound as he shoves his hips up and braces his hands on the floor, stretching his back in the downward dog position. He thinks he hears Aziraphale make a strangled sound, but it might have just been a cough. He drops his chest to the floor again.

"Urgh. Been too long. Can't remember the next bit."

"You know, I've been watching the way you walk."

Anthony slides back to sit on his heels and hides his furiously blushing face between his outstretched arms, forehead to the mat. "Oh?"

"I think the way you walk is doing more harm than good. You've ended up out of balance, because you're trying to protect your knee, but now the rest of your leg is too tense."

"Maybe." Anthony sits up, glances over at the Angel, who is casually sitting with his legs splayed wide on a yoga mat.

"You need to work on it, do more." Aziraphale lowers his gaze as he asks, quietly, "How long ago was the, uh..."

"The accident? Two years, or thereabouts. 'Bout a year and a half since the surgery." Anthony shrugs, as if he doesn't know to the day how long it's been. He sighs and lies down on his back to bring his bad knee to his chest, wrapping his hands around his thigh and stretching his hamstring with a grimace.

"Anthony... How much of last night do you remember?" Aziraphale's voice is soft.

"I wasn't _that_ pissed. Certainly not as drunk as I wanted to be. So, pretty much all of it." He switches legs. "Thanks, by the way."

"Not at all." Aziraphale murmurs. "It was my... well, I can't say it was a _pleasure, _per se, but, well." The Angel turns his torso to lean across his left leg, reaching for his toes with a grimace. "I'm not as flexible as I was. Getting old, I suppose."

"Bollocks." Anthony grunts, rocking up to sit and look at the blonde man. "It's the muscle, gets in the way. You can't be any older than me."

"If I'm not very much mistaken you have an advantage when it comes to flexibility." Aziraphale straightens his back and quirks an eyebrow. "You hyper-extend."

"Yeah, hypermobile, genetic apparently. Does me more harm than good, most of the time."

"Hmm. I wonder if it might be hindering your ability to get that hamstring loosened up." He pushes himself up and moves across to Anthony's mat. "Can I try something? I won't hurt you."

"'Course you won't hurt me." Anthony grins at him. "Don't think you'd hurt a fly."

"Good. Lie down now, there's a good chap."

Anthony hopes that the heat he can feel radiating from his face can be reasonably put down to exertion as he lies back, and then Aziraphale kneels down and takes his injured leg in his hands, pushing it up to hook the calf over his own shoulder and leaning forwards over Anthony's body.

"Just relax, now. Remember to breathe." The Angel murmurs, pressing one hand to the back of Anthony's thigh.

Anthony is indeed finding it hard to breathe, but not because of the stretch. His fingers are tingling, his skin prickling, every nerve singing where Aziraphale's body touches his, the gentle weight of the Angel's torso along his leg, the points of pressure of his fingertips. He's hyper-aware of every millimeter of contact and his face heats further as he realizes that, if they're going to be working out like this with any regularity, he's going to have to start wearing a jockstrap.

"How's that?" Aziraphale murmurs, looking down on him, and Anthony is almost overwhelmed with the desire to reach up and grab a fistful of white blonde hair and drag the Angel down.

"Uh, you'd better stop." He mumbles, and immediately Aziraphale sits back on his heels, concern descending like a shadow over his face.

"Is everything all right? Did I hurt you?"

"No, no, I'm fine, it's just..." Anthony sits up and tucks his knees to his chest, running one hand through his hair with a sigh. He can't meet the other man's eyes. "Look, I'm gonna be honest with you, and I want you to be honest with me. I like you, I do. It's just, I... I haven't... been with anyone for a while, and you're... I know it's different with performers, where you're all jumbled together, shared changing rooms and helping each other, I remember, and it's not like you don't _notice_ the other person's body, just that you don't _think_ about them like that, but I-I do think of you... uh, like _that,_ so..." He puts a hand to his aching head. "I want to keep exercising with you, because I like being around you, but..."

"Anthony, please look at me."

Anthony raises his head with a sigh. Aziraphale is looking at him with an expression that he can't read, somewhere between fear and sorrow and care.

"Anthony Crowley, I would very much like to kiss you now. Would that be all right?"

"If you don't," Anthony breathes, "I may never forgive you."


	9. Chapter 9

All Anthony can do now is try to breathe, try to remember how to keep the air moving in and out of his lungs as the Angel closes the gap between them and takes his hands. Aziraphale's hands are bigger than his, calloused but gentle, holding his thin fingers as if he's afraid of breaking them.

"Please." Anthony whispers as his eyes flutter closed, and Aziraphale leans forward and brings their mouths together, chaste and tender, just a soft press of lips to lips.

It's enough to make Anthony feel like he's flying. Or fainting. Or falling.

"Are you all right?" Aziraphale breathes, and the air from his mouth ghosts over Anthony's lips.

"Yeah." He croaks. Clears his throat. Swallows hard.

"May I...?" The Angel sounds hesitant. _Please, more, yes, now._

"Better not. Uh... Not that I don't want to, just..."

"Yes. Yes, probably best if we, um..." Aziraphale sits back, but doesn't release his hands. The point of contact between them is warm and steady and charged. Anthony clears his throat again.

"Yeah, uh, probably not the best time, o-or place."

"No, no, of course." Aziraphale lets go of his hands, and the loss of contact leaves him feeling bereft and rudderless. Anthony twists his head away, breaking his gaze and bringing a hand up to rub the back of his neck.

"Well." Aziraphale slaps his hands to his knees decisively. "I've been meaning to ask, have you though of retraining?"

"W-what?" The mood changes so rapidly that Anthony reels for a moment. "Well, not really. I mean, I'm never going to walk the wire again."

"No, of course not." Aziraphale's voice is gentle. "But, what about something else? There are so many disciplines! There has to be something, you're so talented..."

"Maybe I used to be." Anthony shakes his head, face tight with bitterness. _Damn the Angel for ruining this moment by dredging up old ghosts_.

Aziraphale frowns. "You _are_. You could be a performer again, if it's what you wanted."

"That's not who I am any more."

"Who you _are_..? You are _Anthony Crowley!_ You are the son, and the grandson, of circus performers, of artists! And don't think that I don't know how may generations of your family have been in the circus. Your Grandfather wasn't a funambulist, there's no reason to think that there isn't a place for you."

"Yeah, Grandad was a lion tamer, and you can get fucked if you think I'm gonna do something that stupid!"

"But even so, there are so many other things, so many avenues! You're a _Crowley_, circus is in your blood! I want to help you find your place. You're worth more than this."

"I don't know. Not smart enough to do magic, hate bloody horses, never got the hang of juggling... Hell, I even tried diablo, but the guys now are so damn talented..."

"Oh, but I'm sure there's _something_..."

"What the _hell_ is _he_ doing here?!"

Gabriel's voice cracks like a whip around the tent, and Anthony cringes and shoves himself to his feet.

"Sorry, sorry, I'm just going." He snatches up his sunglasses and jams them onto his face as he rolls up the yoga mat, and Aziraphale springs up to stalk towards his trainer, his gentle face contorted in righteous fury.

"He has as much right to be here as anyone else."

"Like hell he does!" Gabriel sneers. "Like a bad penny, he just keeps turning up." He turns his steely gaze to the roustabout. "Don't you have horseshit to shovel?"

"Yeah, I know, I'm going." Anthony mumbles. Aziraphale is horrified by the way the redhead's shoulders have drooped, his back bowed. The Angel draws himself up and holds out his hand, halting the roustabout.

"Anthony, stay where you are!" He barks, before snapping his eyes to his trainer. "How dare you?" he snarls, "You have no right to speak to him that way! This nonsense about bad omens needs to stop!"

"You don't know, Aziraphale, you weren't there..." Gabriel's lip twists, and Aziraphale's hands clench into fists at his sides.

"I may not have been there, but I know what happened, and it was an _accident!_"

"An accident that was nearly repeated when he was lurking in the top watching you train! I won't have him around, it's asking for trouble."

"Oh please!" Aziraphale rolls his eyes. "He was there, and I slipped, and that's somehow _his_ fault? What nonsense! That's not evidence, that's confirmation bias! Good lord, don't you know anything about statistical analysis?" He whirls around, and Anthony almost cowers under his gaze.

"Tell me Anthony, how many of our rehearsals have you watched?" The Angel asks.

"Uh..." Anthony cringes. "A few, I guess..."

"And how many performances have you snuck in to?"

"Um, nearly all of them..."

"How many times have I had an accident while you were there? For that matter, when has _anyone_ had an accident while you were there?"

"Um..." Anthony searches his memory. "I don't know..."

"Because there haven't _been any._" Aziraphale announces, triumphant, before turning back to his trainer. "So you see, there is no reason to believe that being around Anthony Crowley will have any negative affect on me at all. For that matter, I would think that, if anything, my performance will improve by my association with him. So I'll thank you now to leave us to train in peace."

Gabriel is gaping at him, his jaw hanging open. He darts a glance at Anthony before snapping his mouth shut and whirling away to stalk from the padroom. Aziraphale blows out a shuddering sigh and turns to grace Anthony with that sunbeam smile.

"That felt _marvelous_." He announces.

Anthony draws a deep breath. "Aziraphale. That was... _amazing_."

The Angel's cheeks color, and he flaps his hand, brushing away the compliment. "Oh, pish-posh, it's no more than you deserve."

"Y-you're _kidding_!" Anthony takes a halting step towards him. "It wasn't _nothing!_ It was... you stood up for me."

"Well, yes, of course!" Aziraphale seems confused at the fuss. "You don't deserve to be treated the way they..."

"You're like a proper guardian angel." Anthony breathes. He closes the gap between them to take Aziraphale's hands in his own. "My own personal angel."

"Oh stop." Aziraphale ducks his head away from the scrutiny. "Anyone would have done the same."

"No, they wouldn't. They haven't. Just you." Anthony's voice is a low growl as he looks at the Angel through tinted glass. "Only you."

"Well." Aziraphale clears his throat. "I-I should... I mean, we should probably..."

"Yes. Yeah, sorry." Anthony drops his hands and steps back, heart hammering in his throat.

"I have to admit, I feel a little shaken. Goodness, I haven't spoken to anyone like that since my father!" Aziraphale laughs weakly, and Anthony gives a dry chuckle.

"You should probably go and rest. I dunno how much sleep you got last night, but you've got a show later..."

"Yes, yes. I, well, I slept tolerably well, although you do tend to hog the duvet." Aziraphale flashes him a shy smile. "Give me a quick kiss, for luck."

Anthony laughs, brief and bright. "You're asking _me_ for a good-luck kiss?"

"Yes, I am." The Angel's face is so open and sincere that Anthony's heart aches. He takes Aziraphale's hands and draws him close to press their lips together.

"Okay?" He asks, as the Angel leans back, eyes closed.

"Very." Aziraphale murmurs, before opening his eyes and blessing the roustabout with the full force of his luminous gaze. "I-I should..."

"It's fine, go."

"Can I see you later? After the show?"

"Yeah." Anthony smiles. "I'd like that."

Aziraphale smiles wide, blue eyes bright, surrounded by that halo of white blonde hair, and Anthony thinks that he's never seen anything so beautiful. The Angel tightens his grip, squeezing the roustabout's fingers for a brief moment, before dropping his hands and striding away out of the tent, leaving Anthony gaping after him.

The roustabout gives himself a shake. What he needs now is a bacon sandwich, and a coffee. And then, he thinks with a grin as he makes his way to the mess, a shower, a wank, and a nap. In that order.

This might be the best hangover he's ever had.


	10. Chapter 10

He's snuck in to the shows so many times now that it's second nature for him to hug the shadows, step gingerly over the lines, dodge the crew and the crowds alike. He barely breathes until he's tucked into the wings, tight up against the side of the raked seating. It's a crappy angle, from here the ring is almost totally obscured by the seats, but it's the perfect place for him.

Anthony leans back, craning his neck to watch the Angel flash overhead, swinging into his field of view and away again, out of sight beyond the seats and the backs of the cheering audience. Anthony exhales in an almost-sigh as Aziraphale appears again, one of the other Angels held tight in his grip.

Anthony has never seen the whole show. He has no idea what the others in the troupe are doing, or what the tricks look like to the audience. He's only here for one thing; Aziraphale. The bright gleaming smile, the shock of unruly white-blonde hair, the strong capable hands.

He had often wondered what it would be like if Aziraphale caught sight of him, how the Angel's face would change. Would he be happy, surprised, shocked? Anthony knows he's too well hidden, black on black in shadow, wrapped in an aura of _nothing to see here_ that he's cultivated for some time. Still, for a moment, he imagines their eyes meeting.

The trapeze slows and stops, and Aziraphale pulls himself up onto the board to wave. He's a vision all in white, face flushed with exertion and exuberance, sequins shimmering. Anthony watches him scramble down the rope ladder and then the Angel walks out of view into the ring, to bask in the adoration of the crowd. Anthony feels a thrill run through his body as he prepares to do something he's been wanting to do ever since he first caught sight of the blonde with the broad shoulders and gentle eyes.

The Angels separate to leave the ring, Samuel and Michelle one way, and Aziraphale and Yael the other. Yael always goes first so it's easy enough, as Aziraphale walks past, for Anthony to reach out and grab the Angel's hand and pull him into the shadows.

"A-Antony!" Aziraphale yelps, and the roustabout hushes him, jerking a thumb at the audience above them. The Angel's face breaks into a gleaming smile.

"You came to watch." He murmurs, _sotto_-voice. They don't have to worry too much about being overheard, the band has struck up again, but it wouldn't do for someone in the audience to notice them.

"You were amazing." Anthony breathes. He runs his rough thumb over the back of the Angel's knuckles.

"Oh come on, it's a team effort." Aziraphale blushes and tries not to look too smug.

"I was only watching you." Anthony's own smile is a tentative, fleeting thing, and Aziraphale chases it with his eyes, watches the way the quirk of his lips creases the corners of his golden brown eyes.

"I don't imagine you saw much of it from here." Aziraphale darts a glance at the sliver of the ring visible. Anthony's gaze roves over the Angel's face.

"I saw exactly what I wanted. You're beautiful."

"Oh really!" Aziraphale huffs a soft laugh. "I'm probably bright red, I'm _definitely_ sweaty, I'm fairly sure I smell..."

Anthony wraps his free hand around the back of the Angel's neck and draws him close to press their mouths together. Aziraphale inhales sharply through his nose before bringing his hand up to grab a fist-full of Anthony's shirt and drag their bodies together. It's Anthony's turn to gasp as the aerialist lets go of his hand to grab his narrow waist, and he tilts his head to deepen the kiss. Before his brain can catch up they're kissing like teenagers, messy and inelegant, teeth and noses bumping and hands fumbling. Anthony gasps into Aziraphale's mouth as the Angel grips his buttock in one strong, firm hand, and Anthony cants his hips forwards, pushing his leg between Aziraphale's to hitch his thigh up into him. The aerialist groans softly, licking into his mouth and sliding his other hand up under Anthony's shirt to trace his spine with his fingertips. Anthony growls and wraps his arm around Aziraphale's broad waist, crushing them together, his other hand tangled in golden curls. The Angel's hands are steady, firm and confident where they move over his body, but Anthony can feel Aziraphale's mouth trembling, and he pulls himself away reluctantly, separating their mouths. Aziraphale exhales a shuddering sigh, his fingers gripping the redhead's slim waist tightly. His pale face is flushed crimson, the blush descending down his throat, and Anthony wants to chase it with his mouth. He gives himself a mental shake.

"Sorry." He murmurs. "Got a bit carried away."

"Quite... quite all right." Aziraphale swallows hard and flicks his tongue over his lips. "Me too."

"We should, um..."

"Yes, yes, I have to get ready for the, uh, the parade. I should... calm down."

Despite his words, the Angel's eyes are looking at the roustabout's mouth hungrily. Anthony shivers with lust before turning his head, breaking the gaze.

"Yeah, go on, I'll... maybe, later...?"

"Yes, yes, later. Perhaps I could join you in the mess tent?"

Anthony shakes his head, his eyes clouded. "Bad idea. You don't want everyone to know that we're... hanging out."

"I don't care what they think." The Angel's voice is full of quiet conviction, and Anthony feels blessed by it. He allows himself a fleeting smile before forcing himself to seriousness.

"Look, it's bad enough that Gabriel knows. You need the others to trust you. If they think you might bring bad luck, that could spook them, and frightened people make mistakes. Please, for your own sake, let's just... keep this between you and me, at least for now, okay?"

There's a look of deep sorrow on Aziraphale's gentle face as he nods. "I understand. But that doesn't mean I have to like it. One day, people will say the name Anthony Crowley with the respect you deserve. I'll come up with something, I promise."

Anthony feels weak with this, this benediction. His knees are shaking, and he's not sure if he's going to faint or burst into flames.

"Thanks." Is all he can manage, and he hopes that he says enough with his eyes to communicate the depth of feeling that he's unable to put into words.

Aziraphale must have sensed something of it, because he graces Anthony with his most glorious smile before stepping back, his hands lingering a moment on the roustabout's waist, before he whirls away and strides backstage to meet the other Angels for the parade.

Anthony can't afford the luxury of spending the evening in a distracted haze, as much as he'd like to simply gaze off into the middle distance and allow his imagination to run wild. Instead he knuckles down to work. He knows Shadwell has his eye on him after his recent lapse, and he doesn't want to earn himself another tongue-lashing from the Scot. Even so, every now and then his hands pause and, if anyone were to look at his face, they would see a dreamy smile briefly quirk his thin lips.


	11. Chapter 11

He's finishing his second cup of tea when there's an awkward thump at the door of his caravan. Anthony is at the latch in a heartbeat, and flings the door open with a wide smile.

He's greeted by a tower of books. The Angel's mop of blonde hair is just visible over the stack, and then Aziraphale turns sideways to look up at Anthony with a grin.

"Do be a dear and give me a hand, won't you?"

Anthony, totally bemused, grabs the top four or so books from the stack and turns to place them on the small table as Aziraphale hops up the step and fumbles the door shut behind him.

"You know, I simply couldn't stop thinking about what we might do, and it came to me that I had seen a picture somewhere, and then of course I got carried away with researching, but oh, Anthony, I'm so excited I could just _scream_!"

"Please don't." Anthony picks up a mug and waggles it at Aziraphale with a questioning quirk of his eyebrow.

"Oh! Yes, tea please, white and one. Oh but goodness, I'm wittering away at you again, aren't I?"

"'S okay, I don't mind." _Nice to hear someone else's voice in here. _Anthony flicks the kettle on again. "Although I have to admit I have no idea what you're going on about."

Aziraphale stares at him blankly for a moment before his forehead creases and his mouth droops.

"Of course you don't, because I've been babbling, I am _so_ sorry!"

"Don't... don't be sorry, just tell me what's going on." Anthony flashes the Angel a lopsided grin as he pours boiling water into the mug, and Aziraphale smiles shyly in apology and begins arranging the books on the bed, opening each one to a certain page, marked with whatever he had to hand at the time; a receipt, a business card, an envelope. Anthony brings the Angel his tea and leans over to look at the photos and articles.

Some of the photos are black and white and grainy, others are bang up to date in glossy high definition. The performers are different, but the act is the same. In each picture a man is lying on a sloped supportive platform, with an acrobat either balanced on his feet in one attitude or another, or frozen in midair above him, launched by his feet.

"What _is_ all this?" He murmurs. Aziraphale sips the tea before setting it aside and waving his hands enthusiastically over the various books.

"Why, it's what we're going to do! Together! It's a discipline called Icarian, there aren't many people around these days who perform it, and I remembered it in a flash, and I think it's just _perfect!_"

"Perfect?" Anthony's eyes have widened as he stares, and his brow is furrowed. "You... you really think I could _do_ this?"

"My dear, I'm _certain! _It won't be easy, of course, but don't you think it would be _spectacular_?"

"Hang on." Anthony fumbles his phone out and starts jabbing at the screen, pulling up videos. He leans close to Aziraphale and they watch the flickering screen together in rapt concentration. Anthony whistles low under his breath.

"One wrong move and I wouldn't have much of a sex life to talk about."

"Oh, stop." Aziraphale murmurs. "It's all about practice. I'm certain I'm strong enough, the rest is just timing and discipline."

"I... I don't know." Anthony flicks his thumb and the screen goes black. "I'd have to think about it."

"Of course." Aziraphale smiles slyly. There's a gleam in the redhead's eye that he suspects hasn't been there for some time. "We don't have to start right away. Which reminds me, how have you been today? I, uh, didn't get a chance to ask when I saw you earlier."

Anthony grins as the Angel's cheeks color with warmth.

"Yeah, didn't get much of a chat, did we? Well, I think you're right about the hamstring. I've been okay, but I really felt it this evening as I cooled down."

Aziraphale tuts. "And here's me distracted with books! Come now, you must let me take a look at you." The Angel snaps the books shut one by one and sweeps them off the bed and onto the table. "Come along now, pop up on the bed and lie down, there's a good chap."

Anthony feels his face heat as he lies down, spreading himself on the bed before the Angel, who regards him quizzically.

"No-no-no, on your front, and take those jeans off, I need to see to your hamstring."

Blushing furiously, Anthony slips the baggy jeans down his legs. He much prefers a slimmer cut, but he has to be able to fit them over the knee brace. He throws them aside with a flick of his wrist and lies face-down on the thin mattress with his legs parted to allow the Angel to kneel between them and begin massaging the tension from his injured leg. He's quite glad that he's face-down because, as Aziraphale places his warm, steady hands on his thigh, the rush of blood isn't just to his face.

With long, measured strokes, the Angel works over his taut muscles, kneading and pressing into the flesh. Anthony sucks a hissing breath through his teeth and Aziraphale sits back suddenly.

"Sorry, did I hurt you?"

"No, no, it's fine, keep going." _Keep touching me, put your hands on me._ It's incredible, to have another soothing the ache from his limbs, and undeniably erotic. He stifles a moan as he tries to press his hips into the mattress to gain a little friction on his burgeoning erection.

"You really are _far_ too tense. Do you have something to, um, loosen things up?" Aziraphale's voice is low and husky, and it thrums through Anthony's body in trembling waves, sparking heat low in his stomach. He's been waiting for this for months, fantasizing about this moment. He turns his head slightly and gestures with his hand.

"Top drawer, the side-table."

Aziraphale leans over to pull the draw open and fumble inside, his hand encountering a small bottle. He frowns at the label.

"Sliquid Gel... No, I was thinking more along the lines of Deep Heat, or Tiger Balm."

Anthony pauses halfway through wriggling out of his underwear to twist round and prop himself up on one elbow to regard Aziraphale with horror.

"Jesus Christ! What are you, a sadist? You're not putting Deep Heat up my arse!"

"Up your... no, for your leg! Why would I...?" Aziraphale freezes, focus drawn suddenly back to the redhead, underwear halfway down his thighs, and his brain suddenly connects the dots.

"Oh! Oh, good Lord!" He drops the bottle onto the bed as if it burns. "No, that's... that's not what I meant at all!" He's scrabbling backwards, stumbling off the bed, his face crimson with embarrassment, and Anthony is wriggling his boxers back over his arse and trying to stand up at the same time.

"No, no, I'm sorry, please, you don't have to leave..."

"I, oh my goodness, no, I really ought to go..."

"Please, Aziraphale, angel, I'm sorry, please..." Anthony grabs his jeans in one hand and Aziraphale's wrist with the other. "Don't go, you... you haven't drunk your tea!"

For a wonder the aerialist pauses, his eyes cast down, face flushed.

"A-and you can't leave your books here! They'll only end up stinking of smoke. Please angel, just sit down."

Aziraphale looks at him searchingly, before slowly sitting down on the end of the bed, studiously ignoring the blushing redhead as he slithers into his jeans.

"'Angel'?" Aziraphale says quietly. Anthony huffs a laugh, affecting casualness.

"Uh, yeah, sorry. It's just... well, you are, aren't you? One of the Angels? If you don't like it..."

"No-no, I... I didn't say that." Aziraphale gives him a tentative smile. "It's... quite nice. I've never had a nickname before."

"Really?" Anthony sits next to him and offers him his tea. Aziraphale takes the mug, glad to have something to occupy his hands.

"No-one's ever seen fit to give me one before." He sips his tea, and blushes again. "A-a nickname, I mean."

"Yeah, yeah I got that. But really? I mean, Aziraphale, it's a bit of a mouth-full, isn't it? No-one ever shortened it to Azi? Or Zira?"

"No they have _not_." Aziraphale says, with a tone heavily implying that he would not take it kindly if anyone tried. "Has anyone ever called you Ant?"

"Point taken." Anthony winces in sympathy. "Look, I-I'm sorry if I got the wrong end of the stick. It's just, I really like you, and I thought..."

"Anthony." Aziraphale takes another fortifying gulp of tea. "It's not that I don't like you, because I do, very much, but I don't want you to think that I'm only interested in... in..."

"Sex." The redhead fills in. Aziraphale looks away.

"Yes. I... I want to get to know you, the _real_ Anthony Crowley. A-and I don't want you to assume that my interest is solely physical. Not that I _don't_ want to, um, be closer, uh, with you, but, you see, uh..."

"I get it, it's fine." Anthony blurts, mostly to stop the awkward mumbling. "And it's okay, I understand, and I'll back off. I'm sorry, I got carried away. If you need more time, that's fine, I'm cool, but just... don't, you know... I don't want to stop seeing you."

"Oh my dear, of course." Aziraphale reaches out to grasp Anthony's hand, squeezes it tight. "This isn't 'no'. It's, just, 'not yet'. Do you understand?"

"Yeah. Yeah, no, it's fine, I get it. But you really shouldn't leave your books here, 'coz you know I'm gonna have a fag as soon as you leave."

"Yes, of course." Aziraphale drinks the last of his tea and pushes himself to his feet, before gathering up his books. "And, Anthony, I must tell you that the... when you pulled me aside earlier... Well, it was.. really very lovely, but... I mean, what with the adrenaline from the show, I'm afraid I rather gave you the wrong impression. I think, under the circumstances, it would be better if you didn't, um..."

"No, no it's fine, I won't... I promise."

"Well then." Aziraphale gives him another trembling smile. "I still expect to see you for training tomorrow."

And with that he lets himself out, closing the door awkwardly behind him, and Anthony buries his head in his hands.


	12. Chapter 12

They continue training, although it's mostly Anthony working through the physio that he's been neglecting, while Aziraphale shifts the focus of his strength training. They talk, ask questions, getting to know each other's pasts, their potential futures. They smile and laugh and avoid eye contact, and Aziraphale doesn't touch him, save for the occasional tentative brush of fingertips. Anthony still watches the show every night (with a matinee on Saturdays), but now he leaves before the aerialists descend to the ring. He knows that if he stays, if he is just an arm's length away as the Angel walks past, he might give in to temptation, and he promised, he_ promised._ So he always leaves, hugging the shadows, creeping shame-faced from under the canvas. And every night (with a matinee on Saturdays), Aziraphale's eyes flick sideways into the shadows as he leaves the ring, to see... nothing. And he's relieved, and, at the same time, disappointed.

It's after one such performance, two weeks after their furtive, stolen kiss, that Anthony is slinking from the big top as the applause crests behind him. His shoulders are hunched, his hands jammed in the pockets of his jeans. He's skirting the perimeter of the tent when a rough hand clasps his shoulder and drags him round, and he's staring into two painted faces.

"AJ." Hanzi growls, his make-up creasing strangely around the snarl on his face.

"The fuck do you want?" Anthony jerks his shoulder back, shaking off the man's grip.

"We only want a little word with you." Liam's mouth is twisted under the greasepaint smile.

"Seen you hanging about." Hanzi continues. "We're here to tell you to back off."

"I don't know what you're talking about." Anthony keeps his face carefully blank, and Hanzi scowls and spits on the ground between them.

"Bullshit. We know you've been hangin' round the Angel like a bad smell. We just want to make sure nothing... unfortunate happens."

"No more... accidents, if you know what we mean." Liam adds.

"Guys, you know there haven't been any other accidents since. Just because I watch the show, it doesn't..."

"We seen you, in and out of the padroom with the toff." Hanzi's eyes are hard and dangerous. "You know damn well the only reason this rig's still on the road is coz of the Angels. You fuck this up for us, AJ, we'll fuck _you_ up."

"Hey, come on now, you know I need this place as much as anyone else..."

"Yeah? Well then, maybe you better think a bit more about that, and a bit less about getting your dick wet." Liam leers at him, and Anthony feels a rush of anger.

"Fuck you Liam, it's not like that, we're not..."

"Shut it." Hanzi points his finger and jabs him in the chest. "I'm gonna tell you this one last time. You stay away from him, or you'll regret it, before the rest of us have to suffer because you can't keep it in yer pants."

Anthony barks a mirthless laugh. "What you gonna do, hm? Break my legs? Who gives a fuck?"

"All I know is, people who get close to you, well, the curse comes on 'em, doesn't it?" Hanzi's voice is cold. "So maybe the poofter learns the hard way."

"Don't you call him that!" Anthony smacks both of his palms into Hanzi's chest, pushing him back a pace. "Don't you _fucking_ threaten him! I swear to God if you touch him..."

"Who said anything about us?" Hanzi raises a painted eyebrow in a mockery of innocence. "It'll be your fault, won't it? Poshrat like you, barely belong here yourself, reckon most'd be glad to see the back of you. And they would, they'd get rid of you, because they'd know it was your fault, mókadi jugal."

Anthony can't speak, he's breathing too hard, rage threatening to choke him. His hands clench and un-clench where he holds them at his sides.

"I hope you understand, we're only doing what's best for everyone." Liam cracks a vicious grin at him, and Hanzi chuckles low in his throat.

"Exactly. We'll be keeping an eye on you, AJ. Come on, we've got a parade to get to." He jerks his head to Liam, who flashes his teeth at Anthony one last time before they slink away backstage, Hanzi with one hand making the sign of the horns, pointing at the earth, warding off evil.

The strength of his fury carries Anthony back to his caravan, where he snatches up a cigarette and lights it, before remembering that he had told Aziraphale that he'd quit a week ago. He crushes it to pieces in the ashtray with a vicious snarl.

Ten minutes later he lights another with shaking hands, and smokes it right to the filter.

The next morning Aziraphale is limbering up in the padroom, and darting irritated glances at the clock. Anthony is usually late, but not by this much. He frowns and wonders if something might have happened. Perhaps the roustabout is having another moment of bleakness. Perhaps he's hungover, or still drunk, or worse...

Aziraphale sighs and makes up his mind. He snatches up his towel and heads for the door, only to be confronted by the other three Angels.

"Samuel, Yael, Michelle!" He greets them, confused, and then alarmed, as they crowd him backwards into the padroom. Samuel twitches the flaps of the tent shut behind them.

"Aziraphale." Yael flicks her eyes over him. "We've heard some... disturbing rumors."

"Oh? What... what sort of rumors?" Aziraphale feels sweat prickle his forehead as the hairs rise on the back of his neck. He's not easily intimidated, but his colleagues are frightening in their intensity.

Michelle flashes him her tight-lipped smile. "A little bird told us you've made a dangerous friend."

"I-I-I don't know what you mean." Aziraphale gives them a shaky smile as they close around him. Samuel sneers. "We know you've been spending time with AJ." The Angel looks disgusted at the thought.

"Well, and, so what if I have been? I don't see what the problem is." Aziraphale tries for casual, but the tremble in his voice betrays him, and he curses himself inwardly. He always has been terrible at hiding his feelings.

"It stops, now." Yael's face is calm, but her eyes spark dangerously.

"Now, now wait just a moment, it's hardly your place to be dictating to me whom I socialize with outside of our..."

"He's bad news, Aziraphale." Michelle says mildly. "Surely you know that?"

"I have heard, and I don't believe a word of it." Aziraphale draws himself up. "I think it's absurd, to believe that a person can be so ill-fated as to doom those around him, and I think it's high time that everyone realized..."

"You think too much." Yael's voice is cold, and Samuel's hand is suddenly gripping Aziraphale's arm with such vicious strength that he can't help but gasp.

Michelle darts a glance at her companions before fixing her gaze to Aziraphale's wide, shocked eyes. "It's a simple choice. Us, or him. It's time to chose."

"But-but-but, this is nonsense..."

"Aziraphale." Yael's voice is so calm, how can she be so calm? Samuel tightens his grip, and Aziraphale winces reflexively.

"Think of your career." Samuel murmurs.

"I-I-I, well, of course I don't want to leave the Angels, I mean, everything I've worked for..."

"Excellent." Yael pronounces, and Samuel releases his arm. Aziraphale resists the urge to massage the ache from his bicep, where he can still feel the fingers pressing into him.

"So that's settled, then." Michelle gives him a tight smile. "Stay away from him, and we'll forget all about it."

"Yes, yes, of course." Aziraphale whispers weakly, hanging his head as the Angels turn away and leave him alone in the padroom, clutching his towel.

He can't bring himself to train any more, all his enthusiasm has fled, and he stumbles out into the yard, his mind whirling. There's only one thought in his head, and it's to find Anthony, to try and untangle this miserable mess. To his astonishment, the man himself is stalking towards him, face grim, eyes hidden behind sunglasses. Aziraphale has barely opened his mouth when Anthony stops, the distance between them barely six feet, but the look on his face making it an impassable abyss.

"We're done, Aziraphale." The redhead says, lips barely moving, teeth clenched.

"You... I don't..."

"It's over. I don't want anything more to do with you. Let's do this civilly, and just go our separate ways, okay?" With that Anthony spins on his heel and strides away, leaving Aziraphale gaping after him. The Angel snaps his mouth shut and hurries after him.

"Anthony!"

He pretends not to hear, hands jammed in his pockets, head down as he stalks across the yard.

"Anthony! Wait, _please_!"

Anthony hisses between his teeth and stops, allowing the Angel to catch up to him. Aziraphale catches his elbow and Anthony snarls and jerks his arm from his grip.

"No!" He snaps. "It's over."

"Please, Anthony, you can't! Not after everything, you mustn't..."

"I can, I will, and I have." Anthony growls. "I don't want to see you again. No more training, no more hanging out, nothing! Just leave me alone."

"Y-you're... you're joking, surely." Aziraphale croaks. "Why, just yesterday you were telling me how excited you were..."

"That was yesterday. I've changed my mind. We're done."

"Who talked to you?" Aziraphale demands. "What did they say? Because whatever, or _whoever_ it was, it doesn't matter, I don't believe it! You're worth more than..."

"You still don't _fucking_ get it, do you?" Anthony thrusts his chin out, glaring at the Angel. "It doesn't _matter_ what you believe! They'll do whatever it takes to prove that I'm bad news, and I don't want you caught up in it! So just stay the _fuck_ away from me, you hear? I'm blokime, an outcast, and if the..."

Aziraphale grabs his face and drags him in, pressing their mouths together frantically, running his fingers up to grip Anthony's hair and hold him still as their lips work together. Anthony growls low and snaps his arms out to grip the Angel's waist, his thin fingers digging into the soft skin, pulling their bodies together.

"Don't, don't, please... He whispers over Aziraphale's mouth, chest heaving, hands shaking.

"Anthony, Anthony..." Aziraphale captures his mouth again, desperate and hungry, and Anthony meets him in kind, keening in the back of his throat.

"... Fuck." Anthony leans forward to rest his forehead against the Angel's, his eyes squeezed shut, breathing ragged.

"Please don't do this, Anthony." Aziraphale whispers. "I know it's not you, someone said something, and I don't _care_ what anyone else thinks..."

"Please don't make this any harder than it has to be, angel." Anthony takes the aerialist's hands in his own and pulls them away, before pushing him back.

"Anthony..."

"No. I'm sorry, it's... I have to go."

Aziraphale watches him walk away.

From across the yard Hanzi scowls to himself and drags on his cigarette before melting back into the shadows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poshrat - Half Romany  
mókadi jugal - Filthy dog  



	13. Chapter 13

Nearly time to move on again. Anthony stalks round the site, head snapping from side to side, taking in the activity. The sky has been grey and brooding all day, and now it's just beginning to spit, little fitful flurries of almost-rain gusting down, rattling on the canvas.

They've done as much as they can to prepare for the work ahead, and now it's time to call it a night. Tomorrow they'll pull down, and then it's off to the next pitch, the last one of the season. He scowls to himself as the wind switches round and blows another shower of rain into his face.

Aziraphale had done as he had asked and kept his distance, and it was for the best. So why, when it was the right thing to do, did it feel like his heart was being slowly shredded every time he caught a glimpse of dandelion-clock hair? Not fair, not fair.

Three weeks since he had broken it off. Three weeks since they had last touched, had last kissed, in painful desperation.

He drifts past the mess tent, peers in through the canvas.

The Angels are at their usual table, Gabriel with his notebook, pointing his pen at some pertinent information. No sign of Aziraphale. Anthony frowns. He must have finished up early and turned in.

He shivers. Perhaps, with the others distracted... No, don't even think about it. There's always someone around. Too many eyes, too many ears. Best to stay clear.

He turns away and begins to weave his way through the caravans towards his own, when he catches an unfamiliar scent on the breeze. He lifts his head, turns this way and that, trying to work out where it's coming from.

Smoke. Fire.

"Fire!" He cries, as the wind gusts the stench into his face, and he sees the drifting smoke.

"FIRE!" He shouts, darting to the nearest emergency point and snatching up an extinguisher before dashing through the caravans towards the swirling grey cloud. Around him others take up the cry.

There are few things as dangerous to a travelling circus as fire. It spreads quickly, voracious, and there's so much for it to feed on. It leaps from rope to canvas to caravan to trailer, consuming everything in its path. There are regulations of course, minimum safe distances between caravans, but with the wind whipping up and switching round, burning embers can easily skip the gaps.

Anthony is running now, as are others around him, the air full of panicked voices, and his stomach a roiling pit. He's filled with cold dread and a horrible chill certainty, and as he emerges from the gap between two caravans all the air is sucked from his lungs.

Aziraphale's trailer is burning, flames dancing over one end, licking hungrily over the roof and out of the skylight, flickering behind the windows.

Anthony shrieks the aerialist's name as he launches himself at the burning trailer, dropping the fire extinguisher as he lunges for the door. A strong hand grabs his arm and he's jerked to a halt.

"If ye think ah'm gaunnae let ye run in, yer aff yer heid!"

"Shadwell!" Anthony gasps, "He's... I can't find him, he's not with the others, I have to..."

"Ye'll haud yer wheesht! There's work te be done." Shadwell's bearded face is grim, the firelight glinting in his steely eyes as he drags the roustabout back away from the flames.

"No, please, I've got to help him..."

"Anthony!" Shadwell grabs him by his shoulders and shakes him roughly. "Ye've a job tae do, ye scunner, so ye'll keep yer heid or I'll gie ye a skelpit lug, ye ken?"

"But..." Anthony twists, trying to break the old man's grip, but Shadwell's hands are like vices.

"Anthony." Shadwell growls, tightening his grip. "I ken yer worried, but the best as can be done is fer you tae do yer job. There's nowt can be done here."

Anthony feels like he's been punched. He knows Shadwell's right, and he can feel traitorous tears pricking his eyes. Shadwell shakes him again.

"Now quit yer greetin', ye lang streak o' piss! Move yer skinny erse and get tae work, afore I gi' ye a skelpin'!"

Anthony opens his mouth to protest when there's a heavy percussive thump that leaves his ears ringing. The windows of the caravan explode outwards as flames gust from the apertures, billowing black smoke pouring up into the night sky as burning pages dance on the wind. Anthony feels the heat of the blast on his face, his tears evaporate in the fierce wave of hot air. His chest aches and his knees weaken, his tongue cleaves to the roof of his mouth. The gas canister must have exploded. Nothing could survive in that inferno.

Shadwell turns him round and shoves him away from the blaze, towards a group of roustabouts. They're manually moving the other caravans back, widening the gap as much as possible.

At some point the rain has begun in earnest. Anthony only realizes this when he reaches down to the hitch and finds water running down his arms. His mind is blank, his lungs heaving, heart pounding. He can't think, won't think. Shadwell's right, he's got a job to do. But the voice in his head won't stop screaming.

They've made it to the second to last caravan when there's a wild cry, and Anthony raises his head and dashes rainwater from his eyes to see a stocky man, blonde hair plastered to his head with rain, standing before the fire with one hand over his mouth in shock.

"Aziraphale." Anthony whispers, his suddenly numb hands slipping. One of the other roustabouts growls at him, and he snatches up the hitch and drags the caravan around. His heart thunders in his ears, and it sounds like _he's alive he's alive he's alive_.

With the last caravan shoved back as far as it will go Anthony stumbles towards the Angel, who seems frozen in place, eyes wide with horror.

"Angel, angel, are you hurt? Please, tell me..." Anthony croaks, and suddenly Aziraphale is in his arms, hands clawing at his soaking shirt. The Angel is making little pained noises in the back of his throat, and Anthony gathers him up and holds him close.

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry." He whispers into the rain-soaked curls, and Aziraphale grips his shirt in his shaking hands. "I couldn't find you... God, I thought... "

"I... I left my hoodie backstage, I just... Oh, oh...." Aziraphale's eyes are wide and horrified, glued to the inferno that had been his home, and Anthony feels almost traitorous for being so happy, simply to find him alive.

He looks up through the rain to see Shadwell, arms folded and face grim. The Scotsman regards the pair for a moment before jerking his head.

"Awa' wi' ye."

Anthony nods his thanks and unwraps his arms.

"Come on, come away." He says gently. Aziraphale slowly un-clenches his fists, his glazed eyes still fixed to the burning wreckage. The trailer is almost totally consumed now, bare struts visible like charred bone. There are sirens approaching, blue lights visible in the distance, flashing through the rain. The Angel shudders.

"Come on, you can stay at my place." Anthony loops his arm over Aziraphale's shoulders and steers him away, guiding him gently through the maze of caravans.

Aziraphale is silent and trembling as Anthony opens the door of his caravan and sits him down on the bed.

"Shall I grab you a towel? You can have a shower if you like. I can make tea, if you want?"

"Yes, a... yes, tea would be..." Aziraphale's voice is faint and weak. Anthony bites his lip and turns away to rummage in the cupboards for mugs and teabags. He fills the electric kettle and flicks the switch, dumps a spoon-full of sugar into one of the mugs.

When he turns around, Aziraphale has his head in his hands, his shoulders shaking. Anthony's heart lurches painfully.

"Hey, hey..." He sits on the edge of the bed and wraps the Angel in his arms, and Aziraphale buries his face gratefully in his shoulder with a sob.

"Ssh, ssh, you're okay, you're okay." Anthony murmurs, carding his fingers through the Angel's damp curls as he cries. "It's gonna be all right."

Aziraphale hiccups and sobs one more time, before pushing himself up and running a trembling hand over his face.

"I'm so sorry." He whispers. "I... I didn't mean to cry all over you."

Anthony shrugs. "Not like I can get any wetter. Come on you're soaked. Shower, while I make tea?"

Aziraphale nods, and Anthony pulls him up.

"There's a clean towel on the back of the door, help yourself to soap and stuff. Oh, and a spare toothbrush in the medicine cabinet. I was gonna use it to clean between my toes, so you got here just in time."

Aziraphale manages a weak chuckle and allows himself to be herded into the bathroom, and Anthony turns back to the tea, pours boiling water with hands numb and shaking with cold and the memory of fear.

When Aziraphale emerges from the bathroom, wrapped in a towel with his clothes in his arms, Anthony is rummaging through an overhead bin, tossing clothes into a pile on the bed.

"I, um, my clothes. I'm not sure..."

"Oh!" Anthony turns. "I've got a drier, hang on." He hops down from the bed and drags a folding clothes horse from a recess, popping it open. It takes up most of the remaining space but, he reasons, they can work around it.

"There. I know it'll be a while before they're dry, so I've found some other stuff for you, just to tide you over. I'll leave you to get changed. Tea's on the side." Keeping his eyes carefully averted, Anthony swerves round the dryer and into the bathroom.

Anthony stares at himself for a moment in the tiny mirror, grimacing. Of all the stupid things to do, he's invited Aziraphale to stay with him. After what's happened, he's amazed the Angel can even stand to look at him. He dries his hair roughly and wraps the towel around his waist before entering the main room of the caravan, where Aziraphale is sitting on the bed. He's wearing a tatty pair of jogging bottoms and a black tee-shirt, and is examining another shirt emblazoned with a lurid picture.

"You okay?" Anthony asks. Aziraphale nods distractedly.

"Yes, yes. What's a Cradle of Filth?"

Anthony snorts as he picks up his tea. "'S a band, you wouldn't like it."

"Ah." Aziraphale puts the shirt to one side primly. "More of that 'metal' stuff you were talking about?"

"Kinda, yeah. You found some stuff that fits?"

"Yes, tolerably well." Aziraphale hooks a thumb under the waistband of the jogging bottoms and stretches them theatrically. "Although these are a little on the large size. Why on earth do _you_ have clothes in this size?"

"Um." Anthony feels his cheeks heat. "Just, you know, a... a guy I knew. Left some stuff here, then we moved on. Never know when spare clothes'll be useful."

"I see." Aziraphale casts his eyes down. "A... boyfriend?"

"Not..." Anthony rubs the back of his neck awkwardly. "No, just, you know, a bit of fun."

"Right. Of course." Aziraphale reaches out, cups his mug of tea in both hands, looks down into the tawny liquid.

Anthony leans back against the kitchen counter.

_I'm sorry, it's my fault. It's okay if you hate me, I understand. I thought you were dead. I've never felt so alone. I love you, lord help me, I love you. You have to stay away from me. I nearly lost you, I won't lose you again. I love you._

He gulps his lukewarm tea and looks away.

"Well." Aziraphale murmurs. "I... I'm quite done in. Would you mind...?"

"No, no, me too, let's call it a night." Anthony grabs the old tee-shirt and jogging bottoms that serve him for pajamas and waits until Aziraphale wraps himself in the duvet and rolls over to face the wall. He flings the towel aside and dresses for bed hurriedly before slipping under the covers and flicking the light switch, plunging the interior of the caravan into darkness.

As his eyes adjust to the gloom, he becomes aware of the blue lights strobing outside, striping the ceiling in alternating bands of black and blue. The sirens have stopped, and he can hear the rain hammering on the thin roof, and the breathing of the man sharing his bed, curled in on himself and facing the wall, a huddled ball of misery.

"Aziraphale?" He whispers, half hoping the Angel won't reply, hoping he may have already found sleep.

He's answered with a ragged hitching breath, and he feels the bed shiver as the big, strong blonde heaves a sob, and Anthony rolls over and wraps his wiry arms around the aerialist's muscular torso and holds him until he cries himself into a fitful sleep.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the break in updating, real life is getting in the way. hopefully this chapter will be worth the wait. Only a couple more to go!

Aziraphale is woken by the sound of a kettle boiling. There's no moment of blissful ignorance, no peaceful transition from dream to awareness. He remembers, the moment he wakes.

His throat is dry and raw, his eyes feel puffy with weeping. He's exhausted, still, despite having slept. He breathes a trembling sigh as he sits up and shoves the duvet off.

"Hey." Anthony is making tea, looks over at him with a guarded glance. "Sorry, didn't mean to wake you."

"Quite all right, as long as you're making me a cup." Aziraphale tries for a smile, but it looks forced and he knows it, so he lets it fall from his face as he brushes past the lanky redhead to head into the little bathroom for his morning ablutions.

Splashing water on his face helps him feel a little more normal, and he rubs the grit from his eyes and looks at his face in the mirror, the whites of his eyes shot through with pink, dark shadows sitting underneath like bruises. He can't bring himself to care, and dashes the water from his face with his hand as he ventures back into the little kitchen space, where Anthony hands him a gently steaming mug.

"Ah, thank you. Oh, I forgot to ask last night, do you have a phone charger?"

"Depends, what kind?"

Aziraphale drags out his outdated phone. "It's, uh, hardly the latest model, but it suits my purposes. And I suppose I'll have to look after it now, after all, it's..." _It's all I've got. _"... probably going to be terribly useful now, what with insurance, and... and such."

"Here." Anthony's handing him a cable, and Aziraphale gives him a shaky smile and plugs it in, setting the phone on the little table and watching the battery symbol light up as he sits on the bed and sips his tea.

The atmosphere is odd, tense. Anthony is shifting his weight from one foot to the other, glaring round the caravan, as if trying to find something to blame for the awkward silence. Aziraphale clears his throat and stares down into his tea.

"Thank you."

"What?" Anthony frowns. "What for?"

"Well, taking me in, letting me borrow your clothes and such. It's terribly intrusive of me, but..."

"No-no-no, you do _not_ thank me." Anthony growls. "Not for this."

"W-what? Why-ever not? It's a very kind thing of you..."

"_Stop it!_" The roustabout hisses, baring his teeth. "Just stop! I should _never_ have dragged you back here, and now you're making out like I'm doing you a _favour?_"

"But-but you are!" Aziraphale clutches his mug tightly, shocked. "And if you didn't want me to stay then that's fine, I can find somewhere else, but..."

"You bloody idiot, how are you _still _not getting it?" Anthony slams his mug onto the counter he's leaning against to drag his hands through his hair. "The reason you're bloody homeless is me! I'm at fault here, and now you're..."

"Oh, Anthony, not _this_ again!" Aziraphale stands, his brows tight together. "This nonsense about curses has to _stop!_ You know I don't give a _fig_ for what other people..."

"You're so clever!" Anthony snaps. "How can someone as clever as you be so _stupid?_ This isn't about omens and curses, this is about _me!_"

"And I say again, _I don't care!_" Aziraphale steps forward and jabs his finger at Anthony's chest to emphasize the words, and the roustabout slaps his hand away.

"I'm telling you, it wasn't an accident! There are people here who hate me _so much _that they're willing to do _anything_ to prove that I'm bad news!" Anthony sucks a breath through his gritted teeth.

"I-I don't..."

"I'm saying, I think someone started that fire deliberately."

Aziraphale's mouth falls open. The idea that someone would willingly, deliberately, destroy someone else's home, just to prove a point... "No, that's... No, it was an accident, I'm sure when..."

"Angel." Anthony's shoulders slump, and he raises his hands, takes a hold of Aziraphale's arms gently. "I know you want to believe the best of everyone, but surely you can see that there are some people..."

"No." Aziraphale's voice is quiet, but full of conviction. "I'm sure i-if we think about it, there's a logical explanation... I must have left a light on, or..."

"For fuck's sake, Aziraphale!" Anthony throws his hands up, despairing. "What is it going to take to convince you to stay away from me? I don't want you getting hurt, just so someone can prove a point! And that's what it'll come down to, you know that? God, I-I thought... Angel, please..."

"Anthony, I..."

There's a sharp buzz, startling them both, and Aziraphale whips round to look at his phone, screen lit, vibrating against the table. He looks at Anthony, then takes the two steps to the table and answers.

"Hello? Speaking. Oh, yes, hello.... Right. Yes, I see. No, no, that's fine. Of course, I understand. Yes, all right, thank you. Yes, good bye."

He ends the call and looks up at Anthony, frowning deeply.

"That was the police. They're on site. They want to see me..."

"I'm coming with you." Anthony's grabbing his jacket already.

"Yes, you are. They're interviewing everyone."

Anthony slouches along next to Aziraphale, sunglasses shielding his darting anxious eyes as they traipse across the muddy site. The stench of smoke hangs in the muggy air, the clouds low and rain still gusting fitfully. Aziraphale had changed back into his own clothes. Damp as they are it is still something of a comfort.

The police have set up in Anathema's office trailer, and as they draw closer she comes bustling out to meet them, holding a laundry bag.

"Hey." Anathema wraps her arms around Aziraphale in a tight hug, before thrusting the bag into Anthony's hands. He raises an eyebrow questioningly, but she shakes her head and leads Aziraphale into the trailer, leaving the roustabout standing in the misty drizzle, confused and annoyed.

She re-emerges a moment later, coming to stand next to him where he leans against the trailer in the lee of the wind. "He'll be a little while, I think."

"What's with the bag?" He's holding clutched against his body to keep it out of the rain and off the sodden ground.

"Oh, it's some clothes, toiletries and stuff. We had a bit of a collection."

"And you're giving it to me because..?" Anthony quirks an eyebrow.

"Well, if I gave it to Aziraphale he'd turn it down. So just take it with you, and he won't have a chance to argue."

Anthony had to agree with her assessment. Aziraphale had his pride, wouldn't like to think he was receiving charity, no matter how hard up he was.

"Anyway, how are _you_?"

Anathema's question catches him off guard. He shrugs one shoulder.

"'M fine. 'S not my place that burned down, is it?"

"Still, it's good of you to look after him."

"I'm not..." He waves his hand. "He's just... It's no big deal."

"Sure." Anathema's lips quirk, and Anthony scowls. She has a way of looking at you as if she could see every thought in your head. His lip curls defensively.

"Look, I'm worried, okay? People know we're... that he's staying at mine, and I... I don't want him... You know."

"I know." Anathema nods. "You're concerned for his safety. I get that, I do." She sighs. "I've got Newt calling ahead, cancelling the rest of the shows for the season. We're stuck here until the police are done, and after that we're wrapping up. So, for now, just try and relax. This place is going to be swarming with uniforms and hazard tape, no-one's going to be playing any games."

"So you think it was deliberate?" Anthony looks at her from the corner of his eye. Her lips are a tight drawn line, her brow deeply furrowed.

"I don't think anything yet, and I won't tolerate any rumors about whether or not anyone was responsible. Until we get an official report, that's all I'm saying on the matter." She folds her arms tight across her chest and strides out into the gloomy day.

When Aziraphale leaves the office trailer he looks pale and shaken, and it's all Anthony can do not to wrap him in his arms. Instead he clutches the bag tight to his chest.

"What's that you've got there?" Aziraphale tries for a smile, but it looks awful on his ashen face, and Anthony cringes.

"Nothing, just some... stuff. Um, should I...?"

"Yes, yes, go on in. I'll just... Do you mind if I wait for you?"

"Yeah, no, that's fine. I'll... I won't be long."

Anthony's statement is brief, and when he emerges into the grey day, Aziraphale is talking with Tracy and Shadwell.

"Okay, I'm done." He mumbles, sloshing over the damp grass to them. Aziraphale gives him a weak smile.

"Glad to hear it, I could do with a nice cup of tea."

"You're welcome to come to ours..." Tracy begins, but Shadwell clears his throat and jerks his thumb at Anthony. The roustabout feels his ears burning.

"Well thank you, the offer is very much appreciated," Aziraphale is wittering, "but I really ought to be getting back, you see, I left my phone in Anthony's caravan, and I really must make some calls, so I'm afraid you'll have to excuse us, but thank you all the same."

"Oh, well of _course_ dear!" Tracy beams at the Angel before wrapping him in a tight hug and taking the opportunity to tip Anthony a wink. "Go on, run along you two."

"God, that was horrible." Anthony grumbles, slinging the laundry bag over his shoulder as they slog across the site towards his caravan.

"Whatever do you mean?" Aziraphale murmurs.

"Talking about it... 'bout last night. Really brings it back, you know?"

"Yes, I'm rather afraid I do."

"Listen, angel, I've..."

"Oi, AJ!" The shout is a harsh bark, rough and discordant, and startling enough that Aziraphale flinches.

"Oh for fuck's sake." Anthony snarls, his brows drawing tight together over his dark glasses as he whirls around.

Hanzi and Liam are stalking towards them. Hanzi is sneering, and Liam looks almost smug. Anthony feels a hot wave of anger roll through him, and he clenches his free hand into a fist.

"Still not learned your lesson, poshrat?" Hanzi growls, coming to a halt in front of the pair. "Thought the message was clear enough by now."

"If you had anything to do with last night, I swear to God..." Anthony bares his teeth, and Aziraphale reflexively grabs his arm.

"Don't, please..." He hisses.

Liam grins. "We all know who's responsible though, don't we AJ? Still hanging around, still making trouble."

"I had _nothing_ to do with it, and you know it." Anthony snarls, and Aziraphale tightens his grip.

"Come on now, let's go." Aziraphale pulls gently on his arm, but Anthony doesn't move.

"Yeah, why don't you take the toff's advice and leave?" Hanzi's lip curls derisively. "Should've kicked you out years ago, if you ask me. You know your Dad was all up for getting you shipped off to some relative, soon as he saw those devil eyes of yours?"

Anthony flinches and Aziraphale takes the opportunity to pull him back a pace, but Hanzi's scented blood in the water and he closes in with a grin.

"Oh yeah, told me hisself, he did. Knew then he'd made a mistake, but he still turned his back on his people and let that lóoverni wife of his keep you, and look how that turned out."

"Don't you _fucking _say that about my parents." Anthony swings the laundry bag into Aziraphale's chest and he grabs it with his free arm reflexively.

Aziraphale can see Anthony's jaw clenching rhythmically, his arm tense and shaking in his grip. A small crowd has gathered around them, and the last thing they need now is to see Anthony getting into a fight.

"Anthony, _please, _let's go, there are police everywhere, I need you to calm down and walk away. For me, please?" He's pitching his voice low, trying to soothe the redhead.

"If your Da could see you now." Liam shakes his head mockingly. "Need another man to defend you, eh? Got yourself a big strong bloke to look after you. Doin' his laundry for him, AJ? Maybe if you're lucky you can cook and clean for him too, wipe his arse for him..."

"All right, now that's _enough_." Aziraphale snaps, drawing himself up and glaring at the two men. "I have had _quite _the trying time of it recently, and my patience is _very much_ worn thin. I don't know what sort of a rise you're hoping to get out of us, but I will kindly ask that you stop, and we'll say no more about it."

He tugs on Anthony's arm again, and for a wonder the roustabout allows himself to be turned and drawn away from the sneering clowns.

"Faggots."

Aziraphale stops and his hand falls from Anthony's arm as he turns to stare at Hanzi, who's grinning with savage glee.

"I _beg_ your pardon?" Aziraphale says quietly.

"You heard." Hanzi grins, and Liam barks a short laugh. Aziraphale holds the laundry bag out to Anthony.

"Take this for me, there's a chap." He murmurs, and Anthony does as he's bid. Aziraphale has a terrifying stillness about him, and Anthony is suddenly struck by the look of quiet determination that has settled on his face.

"Angel? C-come on, let's..."

"No-no, Hanzi had something he wanted to say." There's an icy calm about the aerialist as he takes two measured steps towards the sneering clown. "Go ahead. I think perhaps I misheard you."

Hanzi looks him up and down before spitting sharply into the mud.

"Faggot." He snarls.

Aziraphale nods thoughtfully as he rolls up the sleeves of his hoodie, before drawing his right arm back and punching Hanzi in the face.

The clown falls back with a shriek, landing in a shower of dirty water as Liam yelps and leaps back.

"Holy shit! Holy shit!" Anthony croaks as he stumbles over to where Aziraphale is calmly straightening his top.

"Mu doze!" Hanzi slurs, both hands clapped over his face where blood is running from his nose. "I ding you brog mu doze!"

"And I'm really very sorry about that, but _honestly_, that was the _absolute_ giddy limit." Aziraphale murmurs, as the crowd parts to admit a furious Scot and his wife.

"Away wi' ye, ye bunch o' numpties!" He barks, glaring at the assembled folk gawking at the scene.

"H-he attacked him!" Liam shrieks, as Tracy bends to help Hanzi wobble to his feet. "You all saw it, he assaulted him."

"Ach, yer bum's oot the windae!" Shadwell snarls. "Whit's fur ye'll no go by ye, an' he should ken!"

"Come on now, stop fussing." Tracy is pursing her lips and trying to keep the flowing sleeves of her dress away from the blood that's still dripping steadily down Hanzi's pale face. "You were asking for that, you know."

"Mu doze..." Hanzi mumbles indistinctly, his eyes unfocused. Anthony tugs on Aziraphale's arm.

"Come on angel, let's go."

"Hey, hang on, you gonna just let them walk away?" Liam grabs Shadwell's sleeve, and the Scot gives him a steely glare.

"Ye'll quit yer haverin', ye glaikit bawfaced dunderheid!" Shadwell snatches his arm from his grip with a snarl. Liam draws himself up with injured dignity.

"'S not fair, he din't do nothin' to him! You're only lettin' him go becuse he's shagging that lanky..."

Shadwell snatches up a fistfull of Liam's jacket and drags him forward until they're virtually nose to nose.

"Are ye still talkin' to me?" He growls, "Or are ye chewin' on a brick? Either way ye're gunnae lose yer fuckin' teeth!" He shoves Liam back roughly, sending him stumbling.

"Now." Shadwell announces with finality. "Pish off, the lotta ye's"


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies for the (quite frankly ridiculous) delay since my last update! Rest assured that this is now finished, and will be uploaded over the next couple of days. If I wanted to give excuses for the delay then I would, and let me tell you they'd be damn good ones!  
As recompense for my tardiness, and as a thank you, the next chapter has bumped the rating to explicit! Whoops, now there's porn! If you've read this far and don't want the nitty-gritty, suffice it to say that our two idiots work things out. You can skip this chapter without missing much.  
Thank you all for your patience!

Aziraphale sets off towards Anthony's caravan at a rapid clip, and the roustabout strides along next to him. The aerialist's face is set and cold. Anthony can't think of anything to say, so he keeps his mouth shut.

Once back in the caravan Aziraphale slumps onto the small couch with a deep sigh. Anthony dumps the bag of clothes on the floor, throws his jacket aside, and sets about making tea.

"That was bloody amazing."

Aziraphale sighs again. "I really must apologize. I am _not_ a violent man, but _really_, the things he said, well..."

"Are you okay?" Anthony quirks a brow at Aziraphale, who is flexing his hand thoughtfully.

"Oh, no harm done. Well, not to _me_, at any rate. All these movies and TV shows with fist fights, and they never tell you how much it hurts."

"Can I help?"

Aziraphale looks up at the roustabout thoughtfully for a moment before pushing himself to his feet.

"The things he said... about you, and your parents... Is that why you wear dark glasses?"

Anthony turns his head, fussing with mugs and teabags.

"Anthony." Aziraphale puts a hand to the redhead's shoulder. "Would you take them off for me?"

"Why?" Anthony is still not looking, gaze averted.

"You don't need to hide when you're with me."

Anthony sighs and takes the sunglasses off, sets them on the counter. He looks askance at the Angel, and Aziraphale smiles and turns him, bringing them face to face.

"You know, I think you have _beautiful_ eyes. It was one of the first things I noticed about you. Such a lovely color. And they are set off so beautifully by your hair..."

"I love you."

Aziraphale's mouth falls open, his eyes widen. Anthony curses himself. Of all the stupid things to just blurt out. But now he's started, he can't seem to stop.

"I love you, have done for ages, probably since I first saw you. And I know it's stupid, and-and ridiculous and everything, but I swear..."

And then the aerialist's strong hands are on his hips and he's pushing him back against the counter, and Aziraphale's lips are on his, warm and soft and passionate. Anthony's breath leaves his body in an undignified squeak that's lost in the aerialist's mouth. It takes his brain a moment to catch up, by which time Aziraphale's hands are sliding up under his shirt, firm fingers pressing into his skin. Anthony realizes that he's gripping the counter with both hands, he can feel the edge digging into his back as Aziraphale pushes harder against him, pinning him.

"Angel..." Anthony gasps, as Aziraphale's mouth leaves his in favour of worrying his neck. "... the tea..."

"Bugger the tea." Aziraphale's voice is a low rumble that Anthony can feel thrumming through his chest where they are pressed together.

"Oh, fuck." He whimpers, as the Angel's hands slide over his heated skin, his lips hot on his throat.

"Mmm." Aziraphale purrs into the hollow of Anthony's collarbone. "Yes, rather. Bed, now."

"A-are you sure?" Anthony squeaks, and Aziraphale steps back, hands to the roustabout's shoulders.

"My dear, I am _quite_ sure. I don't know about you, but I'm quite done with waiting, if it's all the same."

"Yeah. Yeah, if you're sure..."

"Anthony..." Aziraphale steers the redhead towards the bed. "If you ask me that one more time, I don't know _what_ I'll do. I have to admit..." The aerialist smiles shyly. "I'm quite in love with you too. So, with that said, I'd like to undress you, if I may?"

"Angel," Anthony breathes. "Whatever you want. Anything."

"Careful." Aziraphale slides his hands down over Anthony's arms to the hem of his t-shirt. "I may just take you up on that offer."

"Anything, I swear it, whatever you like..." Anthony shudders as Aziraphale drags the t-shirt off over his head and looks him up and down thoughtfully. The aerialist reaches out and runs his big, gentle hands over the roustabout's chest.

"I was rather enjoying kissing you, if you'd like to go back to that. I must say, you really are a very good ki..."

Anthony needs no further encouragement, his mouth hot and needy on Aziraphale's, his own hands busy with the aerialist's shirt. He growls as he's forced to lean back to remove the offending article, and then Aziraphale's arms are around him, lifting him bodily into his lap as he sits on the edge of the bed. Anthony groans into Aziraphale's shoulder as his arousal is met and answered, and he twists his hips and kisses Aziraphale again, catching his gasping breaths in his mouth.

"What do you want?" Anthony pants, stroking over the aerialist's broad shoulders and down his back, watching his face as his blue eyes flutter closed.

"I... I don't think I'm ready to go, um, all the way, but..." Aziraphale's voice breaks to a moan as Anthony kisses his neck, pressing his teeth lightly into the pale skin.

"I want you in my mouth," he breathes into the aerialist's neck, and feels the strong fingers dig into his back.

"Yes, oh, please." Aziraphale turns his head to fasten his teeth in the soft place where shoulder meets neck as he grabs Anthony's hips, pulling him down and forward. Anthony keens in response, rocking his body helplessly.

"Stop, stop, fuck..." Anthony sucks a breath through clenched teeth. "Lie down for me, angel."

Aziraphale is flushed, pink blooming across his cheeks and spilling down his neck and across his chest. He does as he's bid, lowering himself to the thin mattress, laid out before the red-haired roustabout.

Anthony's mouth waters at the sight; the broad chest with a supple layer of softness over solid pectorals, the gentle curves of the aerialist's waist belying his strength. There's a patch of white-blonde hair in the centre of his chest, and Anthony smooths his hands over it, presses his palms over the pink nipples, drags his nails over the milk-white skin, and watches Aziraphale writhe and gasp under him, fingers twisting in the sheets.

"Fuck, I've imagined this for so long," Anthony murmurs, slipping off the bed to pull Aziraphale's trousers off. The aerialist lifts his hips obligingly with a breathy laugh.

"I hope I live up to your expectations."

"Oh, trust me, you do." Anthony dips his head to press a kiss to Aziraphale's muscular thigh, and Aziraphale sighs and pushes his fingers into Anthony's hair, tangling it in the firey strands.

"I-I'm afraid this may be... It's been a little while..."

"'S okay, don't think I'm gonna last either." Anthony mouths over the hot skin under Aziraphale's boxers, and the fingers in his hair tighten.

"Do you want a condom?" Aziraphale's voice sounds strained, and Anthony looks up along his body at him, flushed and beautiful.

"Do I need one? I'm clean."

"No, I-I haven't... I mean I'm not..." Aziraphale blushes bright and bites his lip. Anthony smiles up at him.

"I trust you, if you trust me."

"I do," Aziraphale breathes, as Anthony's nimble fingers find the waistband of his boxers and drag them down. "I know I can trust you."

"Let me take care of you." Anthony mouths gently along the length of Aziraphale's cock before sucking the tip between his lips, and Aziraphale arches off the bed with a wordless cry.

"Oh dear _God_ Anthony, oh, you... that feels wonderful, oh _Lord!_"

Anthony hums in appreciation as he slides his mouth down, and Aziraphale draws a whine from the roustabout's throat as he twists his fist into his auburn hair.

"Yes, yes, just like that, oh Anthony, oh fuck..." Aziraphale is vaguely aware that he's babbling but can't bring himself to care. Anthony is doing something incredible with his tongue that sweeps all rational thought away, and all he can do is grip one hand into the sheets and one in his lover's hair to try and anchor himself to reality.

Anthony moans around the cock in his mouth, digging his fingers into the aerialist's muscular thighs. Damn, but he's been dreaming about this for months. He's determined to take his time, take Aziraphale apart piece by piece. He moves languid and slow, tongue working, cheeks hollowed. He wants to learn Aziraphale from head to toe, map every inch of him with his mouth, but for now he'll settle for this, for the heated length that lies heavy on his tongue, and the fingers tangled in his hair.

Anthony slips one hand from Aziraphale's thigh to grapple with his own trousers, fumbling them down enough to shove his hand into his boxers, gripping himself to take the edge off his own aching need. He'll get his, won't take long, but first...

Aziraphale's voice has gone high and breathy, his words fractured to gasped expletives and wordless cries. He really wants to tell Anthony to stop, get a chance to give his lover something back, but the redhead is doing his level best to drive him out of his mind with pleasure, and all he can do is gasp a warning.

“An-Anthony, I'm... oh, _fuck!_”

Anthony looks up at him, his amber eyes glowing with lust, and takes him to the hilt. Aziraphale arches his back with a wail, his vision fading to starbursts as his world narrows to pure sensation, the hot slickness of his lover's wicked, wicked mouth, the thunderclap of ecstatic delight that shudders through his body.

Anthony moans around him, slowing his movements to prolong the moment, drawing out the last of his lover's euphoria. He swallows as best he can, but the sight of the Angel climaxing, the taste of his spend, the pulsing of the thick length in his mouth, all conspire together to bring him to the brink. He opens his mouth to gasp in a shuddering breath, allowing Aziraphale's cock to fall from his mouth, and then he's tearing the jeans and boxers from his legs and crawling onto the bed to straddle the blonde. Aziraphale looks debauched, ravished, chest flushed and lips red. Anthony can't help but cover the Angel's body with his own, mouth seeking those pouting lips. He cries out as one of Aziraphale's hands finds his cock, gripping and stroking him.

“Angel... Aziraphale, I'm...”

“Go on love, let go, I want to see you.”

How could he resist that invitation? As if he hasn't gotten himself off a dozen times to the thought of painting that muscular chest... Anthony hauls himself up on shaking arms just as the thought takes him over the edge, and he's captured by the sight of Aziraphale's blushing, smiling face, and the first pulse of his own spend marking the aerialist with shimmering pearlescence, and if he wasn't already coming that sight would have done it. Then Aziraphale twists his wrist and pumps his hand, and Anthony's orgasm hits him like a runaway train. Gasping, shaking, wrung out and spun round, and all his thoughts become _sublime._

He has just enough awareness left to tumble himself sideways before he collapses into a panting, twitching heap.

“All right, my dear?” Aziraphale murmurs, reaching out to stroke his knuckles down Anthony's side.

“Bloody fantastic,” he croaks. “Gimme a minute, I'll get you a towel.”

“Oh, no rush dear. We can always wash the sheets.”

Anthony raises his head to take in the sight of the blonde in his bed, blushing and bedecked with the evidence of their lovemaking. “_Fuck_, look at you. I should take a picture.”

“Really now,” Aziraphale admonishes gently. “And all this before breakfast.”


	16. Chapter 16

“Well, I suppose that's that.”

“Hmm?” Anthony looks up from his phone as Aziraphale enters the caravan.

They've been sharing the little space for six days now, and have settled into an easy domesticity that has left Anthony slightly stunned. Yes, there had been small disagreements, bouts of tension, but considering the circumstances it had all been remarkably simple. He regards the aerialist with unabashed fondness as the big man shrugs and gives him a gentle smile.

“The investigation's been closed. Lack of evidence. So, I can go ahead and claim on the insurance, and...”

“Wait, _what?_” Anthony drops his phone onto the bed and surges to his feet. “What do you mean closed? They're saying it was an _accident?_”

“They're _saying_ that there are insufficient grounds for a criminal investigation.” Aziraphale shrugs ruefully. “I'm sorry my dear, but that's the end of it.”

“But-but-but that's _bollocks!_” Anthony rakes his fingers through his hair despairingly. “We _know_ it was Hanzi, he as good as admitted it...”

“I know, I _know_.” Aziraphale reaches out to smooth his hands over Anthony's tense shoulders. “But the simple fact is, we've no proof. So, time to let it go.”

“I don't believe it,” Anthony snarls. “You lose your home, your stuff, your _books_, and you're just gonna... let it go?”

“They were only things.” Aziraphale's smile softens. “I have everything I need, right here.”

“Shuttup.” Anthony grimaces in mock disgust, nevertheless leaning into the touch. “Sappy bugger.”

“I love you too.” Aziraphale leans forward to press a kiss to the roustabout's forehead. “So, now the investigation is done, we're packing up and moving out!”

“Hmm.” Anthony slumps back onto the bed as Aziraphale putters about the little space, tidying and fussing. “Still can't believe that bastard's gonna get away with it.”

“Well, we have no evidence that it _was_ him.” Aziraphale glances over at Anthony as he drops teabags into mugs. “And he didn't exactly 'get away with it'. From what I hear he's been rather contrite about the whole thing.”

“What he's regretting is riling you up.” Anthony grins. “I hear he had to have his nose reshaped.”

“A gross over-exaggeration.” Aziraphale sniffs prettily, popping the kettle on to boil. “Although I hear the bruises are starting to fade.”

“Listen, I... I hope you know it's just him, right?” Anthony cocks his head to one side. “Just coz he's Roma, I don't want you to think...”

“Oh, no-no-no.” Aziraphale waves his hand dismissively. “I know it's just his own personal vendetta. The others have been perfectly lovely, and any talk of curses or ill omens to do with one 'Anthony Crowley Junior' are now very firmly quashed.”

“That's all down to you, angel.” Anthony stands and sways over to wrap his arms around Aziraphale's waist. “No-one wants to get on your bad side.”

“Oh, hush.” Aziraphale chuckles, pouring water into their mugs. “They've just come around, that's all. It just took a bit of common sense.”

“That and a broken nose.” Anthony nuzzles the aerialist's neck. “I bloody love you.”

“Silly thing.” Aziraphale reaches up to ruffle his lover's auburn hair before handing him his tea.

“So...” Anthony drags himself away with a last lingering kiss to Aziraphale's neck, “what are you going to do now?”

“What do you mean?” Aziraphale takes his customary seat on the small couch, while Anthony perches on the edge of the bed.

“Well, you know. End of the season, packing up for winter.” Anthony stares down into his tea. “I mean, what I'm saying is, you can stay with me, if you want. It-it's not much, I know, but I think we're pretty comfy here, an-and we can just, you know, pitch up wherever we fancy until next season.”

“Wh-why?” Aziraphale frowns. “Like a... like a holiday?”

“No...” Anthony regards him with puzzlement. “Your trailer, it... it burned down, remember? But you can stay, if you want, until you get a new one.”

“My dear,” Aziraphale laughs lightly, “I'll just go home, like everyone else!”

“You... Oh. Oh, right, sure.”

“Well I mean, come _on!_” Aziraphale smiles indulgently, “Isn't that the way of it?”

“Sure, sure. Just, go home.” Anthony has gone very still, and Aziraphale is suddenly nervous. He's done something wrong, but he's not sure what, until he's struck by a thought.

“My... my dear, you must have a home...”

“Yeah. Yeah, this is it.” Anthony sweeps his arm out, encompassing the caravan. “Belonged to my parents before me, now it's all mine. Bienvenu chez Crowley.”

Aziraphale gapes for a moment before turning to take in the space around him as if seeing it for the first time. “But... but Anthony, it... You stay _here_? All winter?”

“Yup.” Anthony face has pinched into a scowl, brows drawn tight, lips a thin down-turned line. Aziraphale regards him again, sees once more the lonely outcast, the orphan, the pariah. He stands and crosses the scant space between them to sit next to Anthony on the bed, shoulder to shoulder.

“I'm sorry, I didn't mean to insult you.”

“'S okay,” Anthony mumbles into his mug. Aziraphale shakes his head.

“No, it's not. I made an assumption, and it was wrong of me. My dear, my _love, _you know I meant no insult.”

“I know, I know.” Anthony scowls and looks away, and Aziraphale purses his lips thoughtfully.

“There's always... I mean, you could stay with _me_ for the winter. If you want.”

Anthony makes a non-committal noise in the back of his throat, but Aziraphale can tell he's listening.

“It's not much. Just a little flat really, but there's a proper bath, and a _real_ double bed.” He bumps his shoulder into his lover's, coaxing a smile from him. “Plus, it's just down the road from where I trained. We could spend the winter developing our routine.”

“So much for that holiday, huh?” Anthony glances up with a shy smile, and Aziraphale chuckles.

“Oh, I'm sure we'll find time for a little rest and relaxation. Besides, we need to find a trainer. I hear there are still some chaps in Europe that teach Icarian.”

“Hgn.” Anthony frowns. “I can't exactly afford...”

“Don't worry about that.” Aziraphale's answer is firm. “I may not be rich, but I've enough put by. Besides, I think it'll be worth it.”

“What will?” Anthony looks at him searchingly.

Aziraphale takes a moment to just drink him in. The set of his jaw, the amber eyes full of cautious optimism. The aerialist smiles and reaches out to cup the lean face in his hand, runs his thumb over a sharp cheekbone.

“The chance to work with the man I love.”

“Fuck, angel,” Anthony breathes, eyes wide. “You can't just say stuff like that.”

“And why-ever not?” Aziraphale uses his thumb to trace his lover's lower lip, coaxing his mouth open. Anthony chuckles, a dark, rich sound.

“As if you don't know what you're doing.” Anthony's eyes are half closed as he flicks his tongue out to touch the tip of Aziraphale's thumb teasingly.

“I have no idea what you mean.”

“Look at you.” Anthony turns his head to press a kiss to the aerialist's palm. “Like butter wouldn't melt.”

“So, what do you think?”

“Hmm...” Anthony leans back, deep in thought. “Me, and an absolute stunner, alone for a whole winter... I think I could stand it.”

“Well, don't put yourself out on my account.” Aziraphale sips his tea primly in mock affront.

“Oh, I intend on putting out.” The redhead's golden eyes gleam. “I intend for there to be a _lot_ of putting out.”

“Scoundrel!” Aziraphale quirks an eyebrow over his mug. Anthony grins and leans in to peck a kiss to the aerialist's cheek, before resting back against the wall with a sigh.

“So, you spoke to Gabriel? What did he have to say about you leaving the Angels?”

“Let's just say that the decision for me to leave was a mutual one.” Aziraphale looks over at the lanky redhead sprawled halfway across the bed. “I suppose you need to talk to Anathema?”

“Yup, and Shadwell. Tracy too.” Anthony's eyes have gone distant. “It's a weird feeling. I-I mean, I _want_ to stay with you, and everything, but...”

“This is all you've known. I understand.” Aziraphale reaches out to place one hand on Anthony's knee, his gaze sympathetic. “We've known each other such a short time, and here I am asking you to change your whole life.”

“'S not the first time I've had my life changed. At least this time it feels... right. Positive change, you know?”

“I know.” Aziraphale turns his hand over, and Anthony takes it, wrapping his fingers around the aerialist's palm. “It's a little jarring for me, too. I've looked up to the Angels for so long. 'The pinnacle of aerial artistry', or whatever the reviewers are saying about them now. I tried so hard to fit in, to be what they wanted me to be, but I never felt like one of them.”

“Too good for them.” Anthony lifts Aziraphale's hand to press a kiss to his knuckles. “They don't deserve you.”

“Flatterer.” Aziraphale gives him that shy, sweet smile that makes Anthony melt every time. “And you're worth more than you know. And I won't let anyone else tell you otherwise.”

Anthony makes a noise in his throat, half disbelief, half embarrassment. He clears his throat with a short cough.

“Well then, best get moving. I'll have paperwork to go through with Anathema, gotta talk to Shadwell, and Tracy. 'S gonna be hard to say goodbye.”

“Who says this is goodbye?” Aziraphale smiles fondly. “Once we get the act together, why, they'll be _begging_ us to come back!”

Anthony barks a short laugh. “Stranger things have happened. Still, even after everything, it's hard to let it all go.”

“Don't worry, love.” Aziraphale leans over Anthony's long legs to press a kiss to his cheek. “It's not the end. This is just the beginning.”


End file.
